


Harry's Journal to self-discovery

by star_k



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/F, Girl Direction, Masturbation, Pining, Slow Build, there's a straight scene sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 03:39:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13045719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/star_k/pseuds/star_k
Summary: Moving away from home is always difficult, especially when you come from a small city like Holmes Chapel and chooses to study English in London.It proves to be even more difficult to Harry when she doesn’t feel like she fits anywhere but sitting on a park bench, watching The Girl move around like she’s the most fascinating being on the planet.And to Harry, she kind of is. Too bad she doesn’t know why (yet).





	Harry's Journal to self-discovery

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank everyone that helped this to come to life (and there were lots of everyones). Y'all who read it and commented it and betaed sSs thank you so much (thanks again steph for the aesthetic help and all hsjkgiusaç SHE DID THE BEST SHE COULD I JUST SUCK AT THIS SHIT)
> 
> But most of all, thank you Lils for being amazing and drawing the most amazing fanart ever. Thank you so much, I love you <3
> 
> also i would like to thank douglas adams and vonnegut for inspiring me to write this one. please ask me why.
> 
>  
> 
> **PSA: THIS IS A INTERACTIVE FANFIC. THERE WILL BE FANARTS DURING THE STORYTELLING AND THAT ARE PART OF IT.**

**PART I**

 

Harry’s sigh is nothing but dramatic.

She’s been drawing for almost 30 minutes now nonstop, and even if she didn’t have technique - or talent -, whenever she looks at The Girl From The Park her fingers itched with this urge to do something. Drawing it is then, unless she wants to verge into stalker territory and take her camera off (and considering how obsessed she already is with Her… better not).

So she resigns to attributing quotes and barely drawn drawings, attempting to translate whatever it is that fascinates her so much about Her.

Must be Her urban vibe, she decides today. Two days ago, Harry argued it probably is Her ability on the skateboard which fascinates Harry, someone with limited coordination as she is. Two days prior that, it had been her grace and patience with her class of children, all not very coordinated but very willing to learn and to hang onto Her every word. Harry could relate.

The first time, though, almost two whole months before, Harry had been drawn by Her smile. And she still is, ergo, the quote.

Wilde forgive her, but in this year and age, the curve of history has become Herstory and Harry is utterly drawn in by it, even if she still can’t figure out why.

God forbid she does one day. Her Girl could lose Her veil of mystery, and then what was Harry left with?

So, _God forbid it_.

Slowly, Harry put her books back inside her bag, making sure to mark the page she was reading with her printed pic of herself, her sister and her mom. She may have a huge collection of bookmarks, but the books that she likes the most or are just truly fascinated, she makes sure to use this pic instead, because she knows she’d be picking those books up more than the other ones and seeing the comforting faces of her family helps with her big city loneliness. It is a way of finding home among the newness of a new city.

Today, it serves as a pun as well. A picture inside of The Picture. Not that any of them would make a very good Dorian Gray, but looking at someone like The Girl, Harry feels part of it nonetheless. Like Basil stranded twice-removed cousin, having found a muse as well she would love to just sit down and admire what The Girl is like. Which, mind you, she’s been doing now for three months, so she knows what’s like.

It started as a coincidence. Harry had been homesick and lonely, desperate for someone to talk to but her roommate and her phone calls back home. So she took a different route from her campus, wandering the city looking for something, anything, to distract the itchiness she felt running up her spine and down to the tip of her fingers, the urge to do something but to walk from the dorm to campus and back. She initially entered a coffee house, drinking some tea to calm down, then she tried some stores, looking at clothes she knew she’d never had the courage to use, to finally end up in a park where people were enjoying the last days of sun before winter properly arrived. And among those, she found The Girl.

The Girl, of course, has been on Harry’s mind since. When Harry saw her that first time her reaction was so strong she reached for her camera like a phantom limb, cursing the moment she chose to leave it behind. Instead, she had to settle for sitting down on a bench and watch her just be. That day, she learned The Girl gave classes to children on how to skateboard and she had the most adorable laugh Harry had ever seen on someone. The following day, Harry came back at the same time looking for her with no luck. The next days, she learned it was a tuesday and thursdays plus weekends class - and that people watching was more fun than she had given any credit to, before. At least when She was involved.

Harry has already debated enough times with herself if what she does is wrong or not, but so far she made peace with the reasoning that, as long as she doesn’t look for more information than she has, she’s good. She’s happy with admiring Her from afar, in a mix of bewilderment for how amazing She is, daydreaming of talking to her or being her friend, and a hint of jealousy for not being like Her, more carefree, edgy, cool.

Today, she translates her frustration into a drawing. Last week, it had been an endless replay of Love Will Tear Us Apart because of Her shirt - much to Harry’s roommate displeasure. By the tenth replay, she had to lie to Liam, saying she had it stuck on her brain the whole day long instead of saying ‘it’s the only way I can feel nearer to this girl I’ve been obsessively trying to figure out lately’. In the end, Harry had ended up listening to all of Joy Division’s discography.

Harry pauses “Disorder” for a minute, cutting off Ian’s opening sentence for the second time that day. Far away, she sees a mom appearing to sit down and wait for the end of the class. Harry always made sure to leave at least 10 minutes before it does, as an excuse to both herself and whoever is paying attention that she isn’t just there to spy on The Girl. She’s just enjoying the day out, reading her book, doing her thing.

(Constantly looking up from her moleskine to see Her interacting with her class, teaching them how to balance themselves or how to do a trick or two, laughing and making them laugh.)

When Harry gets up, she refuses to look in Her direction, afraid of attracting any attention. She settles for picking her bag up, dusting herself off and walking away with no backwards glance, her mind fixed on the idea of just going home and finishing everything she needs to do before she comes back again. Two days of homework, phone calls and loneliness, then she can come back again.

She did stop to take a pic, though. Just one.

 

 

 

X

 

The first time Harry went to London, she had been five. Her memory is faulty, but she remembers feeling small and scared among so many people rushing by, barely stepping out of her way. When she grew up, she thought she’d never feel like that again.

She was wrong.

Big cities have a way of making you feel invisible, and every time Harry calls her mom and sister to talk to them just to have someone to talk to, her shoulders tremble with the heaviness of her being, of being a no one among so many unknown faces. For the blessed minutes she talks to them, she’s a daughter and a sister, but the minute she hangs up and silence echoes back to her, she’s back to being alone. And she fucking hates it.

Poor Liam tries her best, always so polite to Harry and accommodating to her, but there’s only so much she can do while studying and working at the same time, besides being one year older than Harry and therefore not sharing any of her classes. Their roommates arrangement force them to interact, but since Liam spends most of her day out, Harry stays inside by herself, doing as she pleases. Mostly, she just lazes around naked.

As of now, Harry should be finishing her book, instead she is still in her towel, lying down in her bed and throwing her balled up pair of socks towards the ceiling and catching it. Ideally, she should go out to the library to force herself to finish Scarlet Letter. In reality, she’s letting her thoughts drift away, from calculations to how much she still has and if it’s enough to buy some take away, to her last class, to how much she hates this book, to Her, and back.

Talking to herself out loud has become a thing as well.

“Thai sounds like a good option, I think… But so did an English major and look where we are now, rereading The Scarlet Letter,” Harry sighs, throwing the sock upwards again, catching it with her other hand then throwing it back again monotonously, repeatedly. “Maybe there’s still time to change it to Law… or maybe I should just watch Easy A and consider it done… Emma Stone really is way more interesting than- wait, what if I buy pizza instead? Surely there must be some special prices for hungry and desperate students. Like me.”

Harry chooses to let her arms fall down on top of the bed instead of getting up. There’s an unidentified spot on the ceiling, immediately above her face. It looks like an airplane. Could be just a bit of mold. Her towel is almost dry against her tits, but her arse still feels umid against her sheets. If her mom saw her like this, she’d probably freak out, telling her to get up and take her wet towel back to the bathroom unless she wants to wash it herself this time around. Funny thing is, Harry doesn’t mind doing the cleaning. She minds this fucking silence though.

She’s fucking bored and with nothing to do in one of the biggest cities of the world.

Before she moved, she used to dream about what she would get up to here. Her excitement was so much she didn’t even feel bad about breaking up with her almost-two year boyfriend for the sake of not holding either of them back in a distance relationship. How could she cry after him when all she could think about was making a list of her favourite artists and daydream about going to their concerts? Of meeting new people, new bands, working somewhere she liked, finding famous people walking by her side on the streets, visiting historical places, hearing people from everywhere. Instead, she has her room.

And it’s not as if she doesn’t talk to people. She tries to, be it the lady from the bakery from down the street, be it her classmates. And yet, she still hasn’t struck a friendship solid enough with anyone.

Harry turns sideways, using her folded arm as a pillow and hugging herself with the other one. It’s not fair, she thinks, that a city so big could make her feel so empty; devoid of human contact when it pulses with people from all around. It’s not fair she feels so alone surrounded by millions of people. She just wishes she had someone to talk to, just one.

She wonders, not for the first time, what The Girl is up to, and what could they do together. Harry likes to think she wouldn’t be bored then.

 

 

X

 

“Harry,” Liam’s voice is always heavy with sleep in the morning, her head barely appearing from under the covers, hair a wild nest on top of it. “Harry, what time is it?”

“It’s seven, you don’t need to wake up for another hour, relax.” Her tea is still a bit too hot in her cup, so she blows it a bit more before taking a sip. “Go back to sleep, I’ll call you then.”

“Thank fuck, you’re an angel.” Liam hides her face back inside the covers, soft snores starting not long after. Harry chuckles inside her cup, taking another sip before balancing it on top of her thigh, her other hand busy in scrolling down her feed.

She may not know that many people here in London, but back in Cheshire it was another matter altogether. She’s close with her family and close with her friends from there, always checking what they’re up to, be it back home or in their new city. And it’s not as if the city is big in itself, so sometimes it feels like she knows everyone there, especially when her mom gets into her gossipy mood and rattles to Harry whatever someone has been up to lately. She’s sad to say, but sometimes the familiarity of those calls and anecdotes, or even a like or a comment from these people, are what brightens Harry’s monotony lately.

And it’s not as if Harry is very particular with her social media. She’s not a fan of selfies, choosing to show what she’s been up to, or since she isn’t up to much, showing what she sees that picks her attention. A flowery garden. A cat in an alley. A classical building. Tourist places or beautiful graffitis. Whatever catches her eye, she makes sure to save it in a pic, sometimes posting it, sometimes just for herself.

With only one notable exception, of course.

Yesterday, Harry had taken her camera to the park, trying to convince herself there was no problem in taking just one picture, just to capture the dynamics of the group, the whole group, decided that it must have been the reason for her fascination. Yesterday, she settled for blaming her artistic side, sure it was the reason behind Harry’s curiosity. She had followed Her with her eyes for longer than usual, not even pretending to read or eat or bask in the sun as she sometimes did. And yet, by the end of the day, not only she didn’t take any pics - because it didn’t matter which reasoning she tried to put behind it, deep down she knew it verged on creepy territory -, she didn’t do much else either. Although she couldn’t quite mark it as a wasted day, not when she learned a new thing about Her in the middle of it all.

Learning about people, Harry has been slowly realizing, isn’t as easy when you didn’t grow up with them. It doesn’t matter if the person is a chatterbox and tells you their whole life story: in the end, you’ll know about what they remember of their story, but not exactly show who they are besides that part.

Take Liam, for example. When Harry had joked she thought there was a mistake in rooming and that she had been paired with a boy when she saw the name, Liam didn’t even blink before laughing and telling Harry that there wasn’t any mistakes, no. Not from rooming, but from her mom’s doctor, that had told her parents they were expecting a boy and only when Liam was born did they know she was a girl. By then, they were already enamoured with the name Liam, and chose to keep it, as a different way of writing Leigh Ann of sorts.

Knowing this story when they had just met delighted Harry to no ends, giving her a sense that she would get along with Liam just fine. She hadn’t been wrong then, but if asked now Harry would say that knowing it didn’t tell much more than reading some famous person’s wikipedia page did. A story doesn’t uncover particularities such as how Liam, who’s so fit Harry feels bad standing next to her, gets so soft while talking to her mom, or that she smiles so sweet when her dad calls her Lili girl. How Liam loves her name, even if she had a hard time because of it when she was little, as she told Harry someday, weeks after her first initial storytelling.

In the end, Harry has been slowly learning to appreciate the little insights people give about their lives but to not take them by granted. She’s been learning to enjoy building these pictures, mental pictures, of the new people she meets in her new life, mapping out the people along with the city.

First, it had been Liam, obviously. Then came a teacher, her favourite one, who was so sweet and soft spoken you barely believed she wasn’t a student herself, but who was tough while correcting any and all essays. Then her classmates, one by one, starting to fall into categories and show little pieces of themselves. There was blondie on the front row, whose fingernails were always short due to constant biting and who worked at the library, which was why she always ran after class was over, never mind if the teacher had already left or not. Then there was a beautiful girl who always sat against the wall, whose hair was always in a different hairdo, be it a black power or braids or a high ponytail, who always drank coffee to keep herself awake and that had the highest grades in class.

Then there was Barbara, of course, the owner of the bakery down the street, who loved a bit of small talk almost as much as she loved her bakery. Barbara who ran the business for over 30 years with her husband, and who now had to deal with it by herself and her helpers, since her husband had to stay at home due to his illness.

And then, in the center of all, there was Her.

Is. There is her. Present continuous Her.

Harry is almost ashamed to confess to herself, but deep down she knows she’s obsessed. There’s no other word for it, not when it’s been three months and she continues to seek Her out among the trees and the people in the park.

It’s past the point of just trying to learn Her name, it’s about Harry figuring out what gets her so interested in the first place. Making a list of things she learns about Her is just science by now, writing down her findings, trying to find a reason as to what gets Harry coming back. And every time she comes back, the reasoning may change, but still they’re not wrong, and still, they’re not enough either.

So Harry’s stuck on an impasse, where she either gives up or she finds a good enough explanation.

Liam gives out a loud enough snore to bring Harry’s attention back to the bedroom. She may have drifted away on her thoughts, as it’s bound to happen once or twice.

So what’d she learn yesterday?

 

 

It’s not enough.

 

X

 

It’s December and even if the weather has gone cold, Harry is still at the park. In her defense, Cheshire is colder than London (and she’s dreading the day she’ll come around and She won’t be giving classes anymore).

The town is already lit up in Christmas, people cheerier just by the holiday’s atmosphere alone. Soon Harry will be free to go back home, but meanwhile she’s using her exams as an excuse to stay in the park studying, using it as an inspiration to keep powering through.

Somehow, between moving in and feeling like a complete stranger in her new city, she found a routine and stuck to it. Classes, studying, buying food, cooking, cleaning, going to the park, calling her mom, calling her sister, talking to Liam, chatting with her classmates. Between a trip to the market and a slightly awkward night out with her classmates, she realized she’d made a new home. It’s not like Holmes Chapel, it never would be, but even if it was different, it was nice. It had its perks and its mysteries.

Today, The Girl is wearing a beanie and a jeans jacket.

Her friend is around again, the one with the black hair. Harry had first seen her a month ago, where she appeared to wait for Her. Harry had broken her own rule then and stayed after the classes just to see what they would do. They left together, chatting away as they passed by Harry’s bench (where Harry made sure to hide her face behind her book and not look up at all, even if she was struck by a raspy voice with a northerner accent telling her friend off with very rude things while said friend just laughed). She’d come around twice more since then, always to just wait around the end of class.

She is early now, having arrived with Her. She’s just lazing around, smoking cigarettes and laughing at whatever She says, watching Her talk to Her students and scrolling down her phone.

The Girl, however, always makes time to stop around her and give her some attention. Harry gathers from this alone they must be best friends, given how much She lights up while talking to her or nicking her cigarette off. They obviously get along together and suddenly Harry is struck with jealousy, not only because she wishes she could get along with The Girl like that but especially because she misses just clicking so easily with someone. Her best friends are all around the country, be it in Manchester, be it in Bristol, be it still in Holmes Chapel (hello, mom). Meanwhile, Harry is the only one of her group who ended up in eastern London, trying out an English degree and chasing a strange girl on her free time.

Harry sighs desolated, wondering not for the first time what the fuck is wrong with her. Deep down, she knows there must be a reason besides the ones she’s come up to try and justify why she still comes around. While rereading her notes on Dorian Gray, she tries to argue she got infected by the Wilde bug, seeing herself in Basil and looking for a Dorian Gray, a muse, out there and ended up fixed on Her. But since then, Harry had read other books - all of them, sitting in this exact same bench she was, the one with the perfect view to the skate park and yet far away enough to not be creep(ier).

She lowers her book, using a flowery bookmark her mom gave her to save where she left off. Medieval romances are already hard enough to read by themselves, with a head full of running thoughts as Harry had now, it seemed almost impossible to do it. She’s sure she’s read the same page three times before giving up. Not really ready to be done with the day, not when she didn’t know if she’d see Her again before the Holidays, Harry lets her eyes wander, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. She gazes up at the trees, naked due to the cold, then to the group of ladies walking around with their dogs. Smiling softly by the sight of the dogs playing with each other, clearly friends as the women were, she turns slowly towards the skate park, just in time to see Her fall to the ground beside one of her students, both laughing loud enough to echo back to Harry. She does that sometimes, fall to the ground when one of the smaller students has fallen from their skateboard. Harry likes to think it’s a way of making them feel less bad about their clumsiness, a way She found of making them feel better about it. Harry feels bad about the kids, but in all honestly she loves seeing these moments, is amazed by her kindness every time.

So focused on watching Her, Harry manages to see the design in the front of her shirt while She gets up and helps Her student up as well. It looks like a lemon, the words Stone Roses written in front of it. Harry bites her lips, conscious of how long she spent watching them, before looking down and bringing her earplugs and phone out of her bag. She may know about the band, but she never really gave them much thought, has she? Never listened to them properly, that’s for sure. Feeling self conscious of how ridiculous she’s being - yet again -, she opens her Spotify and looks them up, clicking on the first song to listen to after putting the earphones on.

As the first notes begin, Harry lets her phone go, trying the book one more time. Now perked up by the soundtrack, she gets lost in it, stopping just once in awhile to raise her eyes and look at Her from the top of the book’s cover.

The winter air along with the exercise is enough to rip Her beanie out twice, Harry watching Her run after it and huff as She puts it back on Her head both times, her friend laughing at Her from the sidelines and prompting Her to give her the two fingers when none of Her students are watching. Harry bites her lips both times, trying to contain her giggles while watching it all unfold. But soon enough, the end of class arrives and one by one the students go away, some with their moms, some with their dads, all of them hugging Her goodbye enthusiastically as always. It’s a small class, about 7 children, but it seems to be a happy one.

There is only 10 pages left of her book, though, so Harry chooses to stay and finish it instead of going home. She barely realizes it, but it’s been so long since she started to listen to the band that it looped all the way back again to the beginning and kept going, the soft chores of Waterfall replaying on her ear, while she crossed and uncrossed her legs, anxious for the moment She would pass by her bench.

It doesn’t take long, not when She seems to be freezing, hands inside Her jacket’s pocket and hugging Herself while Her friend walks beside Her, Her skate in hand and smile fixed as She babbles away.

Harry sighs, uncrossing her legs once more and slipping down on the bench, back pressed hard against it. She’s an idiot, that’s what Harry is. She’s always been easy going, she’s polite enough and loves to make new friends. There’s no reason, absolutely no reason for her to be this reticent in approaching Her. She isn’t royalty, Harry doesn’t need to be afraid, and yet, as She approaches her bench, Harry focuses harder on the words in front of her, eyes staring fixedly on the book in front of her. Out of the corner of her eye, though, she sees She is the one closest to Harry, Her voice growing louder as She walks, ranting about presents.

“...like, I don’t care if Niall thinks she can cheat the system and give me a big one instead of two. I deserve two, Zayn, and as my best friend you should know better than that by now.”

“As your best friend, I should kick your arse for being a whiney baby, Louis, that’s what I should do.”

Harry licked her lips, antsy in her seat.

Louie.

She has a name now. She-

Harry is sitting so glued to the bench, body rigid while she’s trying to act normal despite her giddiness, that the soft caress of someone passing their fingers on the back of the bench startles her. It’s barely a second, but it’s unmistakable, goosebumps rising in the wake of it, the phantom touch passing through her curtain of hair, tingling at the back of her neck. When she automatically turns around to see who it is, she’s met by the sight of Her - _Louie_ \- taking her hand off the bench and turning towards Harry.

“Hi, sorry for that,” She - _Louie_ \- laughs awkwardly, her left hand, the one who touched Harry, raised in apology. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I...” Harry licks her lips, desperate for words when she most needs them. She swears that moment she finally learns what tongue tied really means. “It’s ok.”

It doesn’t matter though, not when Louie already had turned around with an awkward smile, back to talking to her friend. Harry isn’t even sure if she heard her answer to her apology, but considering she turns one last time to look at Harry and back to her friend, she likes to think she did.

It takes a moment for Harry to realize she didn’t dream the encounter, not when her skin still tingles from where Louie’s fingers have touched. She sorts herself in her sit, her awareness of her body turning back slowly. Her hands still uselessly clutching to her book, both her feet fixed on the floor, not strong enough to support her were she to get up right now. Her shoulders untightening, spreading her euphoria down to the tip of her fingers like a cascade. She takes another minute to go back to her reading, finding it difficult to concentrate when it feels like she’s just been touched by summer in the middle of winter.

 

 

X

 

Christmas back home is always An Event, capsized letters and all.

Her family all gets together in one place big enough for all of them, with a table wide enough for every adult and for the food.

As much as Harry would like, though, she’s still a child for them. It doesn’t matter she’s over 18, soon to be 19, she’s still supposed to sit somewhere else but the table. Gemma made sure to take a piss on her over it, since she’d be sitting by the head table along with her mom and their aunts and uncles.

After surviving all her exams, Harry honestly thinks she deserves a little more of a VIP treatment, instead she gets asked about her boyfriend (“ _who’s an Ex now, yes; no, I’m not sad; it was for the best, yes; I did the breaking up; no; I don’t have anyone else in mind, no_ ”), her classes, what does she want to do with her degree, what does she think of London, and back to the boyfriend thing again. Harry wants to relax after her stressful last days, she honestly thinks she doesn’t deserve this onslaught of unwelcome questions from family members. Instead of helping her, her mom just laughs at her face along with her sister, the two traitors.

So she sits there, paper crown in her head, picking invisible lint off of her dress and nodding to whatever her cousin is talking about. It’s weird, being back home, and she hates how she feels. Neither London nor Holmes Chapel feels like home now. Here she has her family and her childhood memories, but also the promise of leaving back to London. And London… doesn’t have much but an offer of building up her own future. And she’s stuck between both now, not really belonging to either.

She fucking hates this.

Harry raises her eyes, seeking out for her mom in the crowd. When she meets her, she excuses herself from her cousin and goes after her, asking to be followed back to the kitchen. Once there, she relishes on the silence and barely waits for her mom to ask what is wrong before she’s hugging her, her head hidden in her neck and both arms squeezing her waist tightly.

“Babe? Are you ok?” Anne whispers, her hands soft as they caress Harry’s hair and back.

Harry hums, taking her time to think of an answer. When nothing concrete comes, she whispers slowly, “I’m feeling queasy, I guess.”

Anne uses her hand to bring Harry’s head from her neck to properly look at her face. “Talk to me, babe. Do you feel funny? Feverish?” She touches Harry’s forehead with the back of her hand, trying to feel her temperature.

Harry laughs softly, bringing both her hands up to hug her mother’s hand to her face. She closes her eyes, overwhelmed by the protection she feels, the love. “It’s nothing like that, I guess I’m just feeling a little homesick still. Or maybe the holidays blues?”

“We’re right here, baby girl, and we love you very much. Okay?” Anne pulls Harry back into her arms, hugging her into the comfort of her hold.

There’s no reason for Harry to feel like she does, not when she rang her mom as much as she did. She’s not living in another country, that’s for sure, and the distance isn’t much. Hadn’t she been trying to save as much money as she could, she could have traveled back home at least twice a month, if not every weekend. So really, there’s no need to feel this foreboding presence in the back of her neck, saddening her to the sureness that nothing would be quite like it used to be.

There’s nothing bad in a little change.

It’s just London, after all.

 

 

X

 

New Year’s Eve comes as a fresh breeze to her previous mood.

It’s such a cliché, but Harry can’t help but feel like new times are coming, Black Eyed Peas reference and all. It’s not her fault, really, not when the music is blasting from the sound system all around her, the party in full on swing just waiting for everyone to get drunk so they smash it into the new year.

The blessing, and also the curse, of a small city is the fact you know everyone, be it because you know them or about them personally, or because a friend does. Looking around the room, Harry gets the feeling she grew up with half of the people there, and gossiped about the other half with her friends. It’s kind of ridiculous, really, being among them after months in a city of anonymity. Part of her is comforted, of course, but a bigger part is almost… suffocated. It feels like too many eyes at her at once, knowing too much about her.

She laughs softly along with her friends, even if she’s not really paying attention to what they say. They’re standing in a big group of five, all of them with a beer bottle in hand and giggling, excitedly catching up to what they’ve been up to the last months they’ve spent apart. Harry had missed them a lot, even if she did keep contact online. Still, she can’t help but feel somewhat detached while Ellis tells them all about her last hook up. It’s not that she doesn’t care, she does. She loves her girls to pieces. It’s just. It’s.

She doesn’t fucking know what’s happening and it’s driving her up the fucking wall.

On a good day, it feels like she’s being stared in the fucking face by whatever it is she’s supposed to figure out. On a bad day, she just feels dumb enough to figure out something that should be so simple.

In the beginning, she used to say it was just homesickness, but the more time she spent home she realized how restless she was, like she should enjoy things while they’re still the same. Then, she started to categorize it as a growing up thing, as knowing nothing will be quite like the same, not when she doesn’t see her friends everyday, not when she doesn’t come home to her family everyday instead of a roommate and homework. The uncertainty of her future above her raising in her a paranoia so big she felt like nothing would ever be the same, not when she herself was changing into whatever she grew up to be. Confronting either possibility hadn’t been enough, not when there was still an itch under her skin. Something so obvious she couldn’t see, even if it was staring her right in the face.

Harry gulps down her beer. Maybe drunk her would be wiser than she is right now.

“Woah, calm down, Harriet! There’s still a couple of hours to the New Year’s, let’s not get into it passed out on the carpet floor!” Ellis laughs loudly, pulling Harry’s hand down so she stops drinking from her bottle. Harry’s not proud of pouting at her friend, but she was enjoying her beer. “Don’t give me those doe eyes, not when I know how much of a drunk mess you are. Now, _behave_ , or I won’t tell you who asked if you were single.”

Harry rolls her eyes, knowing full well her best friend would spill it either way. She smiles a little bit anyways, always endeared by her.

“What! Don’t hold in the gossip, you hag, tell us!” Felicity exclaims, shaking her arms excitedly in front of her body, animated by the idea of a good gossip.

It’s kind of funny, how they never change, not deep down, anyway. Harry fits in with these girls, even if they spend 10, 20 years without talking or seeing each other. She knows their little tricks, she was there through all of their formative years, much like they were for Harry. They don’t even need to dress like a matching girlband like they do now, all dresses and boots, for people to see they fit together. Not when they have shared history as they do.

“You’re so full of shit, Ellis, not only are you dying to tell us all, we all know you’re a worse fucking drunk than I’ve ever been. My bedroom carpet still fucking smells like your vomit, you cunt.” Harry teases, laughing along with the other girls as they cheer at Harry’s come back and make fun of Ellis.

“Fuck you, I’ll never tell you now.” Ellis shows Harry her middle finger, drinking from her beer to try and hide her smile. Harry can feel her eyes glinting, happy to be where she is, even if she’s still not sure of what she’s feeling.

“God, stop being such a prissy bitch and tell us, I need something to cheer this party up before I drow myself in alcohol to forget I accepted to come back here instead of seeing the New Year in under Big Ben’s chimes instead of the tv.” Lydia glued herself to Harry, her arms around her waist and her head resting on her shoulder.

“Wait, you were going to London? Why didn’t you tell me, we could both have gone see it.” Harry asked her, hugging her closer to her body.

“You? Miss the chance of coming back home to be coddled by your mum, big momma’s girl you are? I fucking doubt you would.” Lydia sticks her finger in Harry’s nostril, making Harry shriek and let her go, both of them straightening themselves and laughing at the other girl’s disapproving glances.

“Why are you both still like, twelve, bloody hell.” Hannah complains, gulping down her beer with an eyeroll.

“On a scale from 1 to 10, bitch,” Harry and Lydia scream in unison, clicking their beer together and gulping it down, spitting it a bit because of their laugh.

“You played yourself with that one, Hannah,” Ellis laughs, clicking her bottle against her’s and laughing along with Harry, Felicity and Lydia. “But shush, all of you. Let me share the news.”

“See? I told ya!” Lydia points her forefinger to Ellis, bottle clutched in her hand.

Felicity shushes her, elbowing her hard so she keeps quiet while Ellis continues.

“Anyway, as I was saying, you all won’t believe who came ask me if Harry was still single.” She stops to drink from her bottle, smiling smugly to their curious faces. Harry rolls her eyes again, used to her storytelling by now. “One Mr Leeroy.”

Harry groans loudly, while her friends all laugh at her.

“Shut up. God, that’s embarrassing. Does he still have a crush on me?”

“It seems so,” Ellis raises an eyebrow at her, “maybe it’s time you put the boy out of his misery, isn’t it? A harmless midnight kiss and then you’re back to London, never to speak of it again. Consider it your first act of kindness of the year.”

“That’s mean and you know it,” Harry bites her lower lip, stomach unsettled by the prospect of doing what her friend is implying.

“It’d be meaner of you NOT to do it, come on, Harriet,” Felicity claps her hands, “you could even like it!”

“I sincerely doubt it.” Harry mumbles, eyes fixed on her beer bottle. She feels like running away, like hiding away from everyone just for a second.

“Why? Do you have anyone else in mind?” Hannah asks her, voice curious, harmless.

And yet.

Yet.

It brings the most violent reaction out of Harry. Of all the moments she could have stopped and thought of The Girl, of Louie, this, among her friends, while discussing who she wants to kiss at midnight, is not the moment for Harry to remember her. But here she is, a hurricane of emotion and memories running through her, of loud laughs brought closer by the wind, of crinkles by the corner of eyes, of softness around children or her best friend, of accidental caresses in a cold day of December. And suddenly, unexpectedly, Harry understands it.

She doesn’t want to be her. She just. Wants her.

“I,” Harry’s voice comes out garbled, barely audible in the middle of a party. She raises her eyes, staring at the curious faces of her friends. She can feel her eyes watering, expression glued together by pure sheer stubbornness. She refuses breaking down over something she doesn’t even understand but what the fuck. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck.

“Harry?” Ellis asks, her voice soft and hand raised to touch her, movement slow as if not to spook her.

“Sorry! Sorry, I just,” Harry clears her throat, desperate for words, anything.

“It’s Abe, isn’t it? Fuck, I knew you were too blase about it,” Lydia hugs her again, pushing Harry closer to her chest. “It’s ok, babe, we get it. There’s no need for you to worry about Leeroy or anyone, ok? We got you.”

Harry closes her eyes. She’s so, so, so lucky for her girls. “It’s ok, guys.”

“Of course it isn’t, Harry! If you’re still hung up over him, you should have told us.” Felicity speaks softly, “after all, you two were together for-”

“It’s not,” Harry clears her throat, terribly uncomfortable by their assumption of a relationship she barely remembers she had anymore, but grateful they gave her an outing either way. “It’s not that, I swear. I guess I just got caught up with. Unexpected feelings.”

“Unexpected feelings.” Ellis’s voice is stoic, unbelieving.

“Right.” And so is Lydia’s.

“That’s a way of putting it, I guess.” Felicity, bless her, is always gentle.

“You’re a fucking idiot, that’s what you are.” Hannah… not so much.

“Heyy,” Harry pouts, clutching Lydia tighter with trembling fingers. “Help me Lyd, she’s being mean again.”

“Don’t worry, Princess Harriet, I’ll save you from the big, bad Hannah,” Lydia laughs, raising her beer bottle as if it were a sword towards Hannah, making them all laugh again.

Harry slowly, surely, calms herself down again, the warmth of her friend’s hold and the easiness of their talk assuring her she is fine, she would be fine. It was but a fleeting thought, something brought by the beer or the weirdness of her mood. It was nothing to worry about.

And if when she kisses Leeroy at midnight, it feels like she’s kissing the wrong person, it’s probably because she never liked him anyway.

Nothing to worry about.

 

 

X

 

**PART II**

It isn’t that Harry is running away from Her.

It isn’t.

But maybe, deep down, it is.

It’s the end of January already and she still hasn’t gone back to the park, mentally arguing with herself it’s because she’s too busy with her classes, and looking for a job, and trying to make friends with her classmates. She doesn’t have free time to stay outside in the cold looking at Her anymore.

And if she’s used to the cold up north, or if she’s bored already from reading in her bedroom, sometimes staring up at the four walls as if she’s a caged animal, it’s beside the point. Besides, she doesn’t even know what would happen if she goes there again, does she? Maybe She wouldn’t even be giving Her classes anymore. Or Harry could be bored of Her already, it’s been a month since she last saw Her, after all.

(The fact Harry can’t think of Her name without her skin breaking in goosebumps may betray that thought, but Harry is very stubbornly ignoring this as well.)

And if she’s got so much free time she’s gotten to reread her favourite books and try new ones besides her course ones? Well, she _is_ an English Major, of course her hobby would be to read, wouldn’t it? Yes, it would. Of course it would.

So it goes.

She makes her way to a bookstore in her neighborhood, near the park but far away enough Harry isn’t tempted to do anything stupid or unnecessary like going there. It’s a hole in the wall type of bookstore, full of used books and dust, instantly charming in its attempt of housing as many books as possible in such a little space.

Harry found it the first time she made her way home detouring from the park, deciding on a last minute whim it was too cold to go there. Or something like that. Amidst her thoughts, her eye caught a paperback cover of a really old art of The Great Gatsby, and before she could think about it, she had already entered the store, instantly falling in love with it - as she’s ought to do.

Now she enters it again, taking her scarf off as she looks around, still amazed by it even if it’s the sixth time that month she entered it already. It smells the same: dust, old books, and the unfortunate smell of customers who maybe thought winter would erase the smell of greasy hair and overworn coats.

She makes her way around the books, looking for anything in particular, distantly hoping for one of those treasures that found you instead. She remembers the first time she found one of those bookstores in Manchester, when she was maybe 14 years old, and found her copy of Coraline for one pound and bought just because. The very same night, she couldn’t even sleep, obsessively reading as much as she could of it, immersed on the story as she was. From then on, Harry always made sure to check anything that caught her eye in these bookstores. So far, she’s found a collection of Austen, a commented version of Kafka, a first edition of Kerouac, and her most beloved copy of Breakfast of Champions.

Now, she aimlessly looks for a distraction, eyes roaming the shelves and the books on the floor, head moving this way or that as she tries to read the names. Lorca. Neruda. Rimbaud. Adams. Woolf. God, next time someone asks her what she wants to do with her degree, she’s gonna say she wants to obligate every publisher to print the names of the books in the same direction.

It’s a saturday, the store’s slightly more packed than usual, the least ideal scenario for Harry, if she is being honest. She likes the noise of people around her like anyone living in a big city, but the inside of a bookstore should be silent, sacred. Instead, there’s a group of tourists talking loudly by the front door, looking at their map inside the warm and safety of the store, a child asking loudly her dad if they could buy her three books instead of two and an annoying teenager listening to music so loud Harry could hear from beside her. It leaves Harry’s skin itchy, a irritability she can’t scratch away, it’s under her nails, up her shoulders, cringing her teeth in annoyance.

She walks away to the other side of the store, trying to hide as much as possible from the people and their noise. In her little nook of shelves, she puts in her earphones, slowly drifting away from it all, Velvet Underground singing for just her and her small corner of books. It isn’t difficult to lose herself, then, finding known titles and unknown ones, taking them out of their place, reading their summary on the back, putting them back, trying another one.

Bookstores are magical for a hundred and two reasons, but most of all because of how fast time passes by when you’re inside one. One minute, Harry is reading about David Sedaris, the next it’s the last song of the album and her stomach is grumbling so hard she can’t ignore it anymore. She slowly closes the book she was reading, smiling to herself about Shakespeare’s comedic timing and putting it back on the shelf. She shouldn’t worry about putting it back in place, not when everything looked so disordered already, but she still tries, mindful of not damaging the spine of the book even more than it is. Satisfied, she walks away from her hiding place, turning towards the exit and immediately returning to where she was, her back leaning on the shelf as she hid away.

Harry closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. She’s being ridiculous, there is no reason to behave like this, not when she got a small glimpse of someone’s back and assumed it was Her. Besides, even if it is Her, there’s no problem in it, Harry argues, since she was so interested in seeing Her skating and she obviously won’t be now, not inside the store. So Harry is cool, the coolest. It’s just a girl she saw once, one she heard the name of accidentally. Nothing unusual about that.

Slowly, Harry turns, small steps until she can see the rest of the store, see where the person is crouching down, talking to a small child in front of her, a little girl in pigtails.

“...as much as you want, but your mum said you could only buy one, ok? She gave me 5 quid for your ice cream and your book, so it’s best you chose one under 3 quid. Okay?”

Harry feels ridiculous, staring at Her - and there’s absolutely no doubt it is Her, not when Harry recognizes the jacket, the poise of Her body and lilt of Her voice from that one time she heard it - kneeling down on the floor and talking to one of her students. Harry’s still partially hidden by the shelve, her body seeking for support against it, asking for the small book of Shakespeare to return the favour and treat her with kindness as well. She doesn’t know what to do, if she should keep walking and pass by her, if she should hide again and deprive herself of looking, or if she should stay where she was, praying She didn’t look up and see Harry, hoping that she would.

When the small child nods at Her, She gets up gracefully, tapping the dust off her knees and taking the little girl’s hand in hers. In a last minute decision, Harry sneaks out of her shelf and goes towards Hers, walking towards the other end from where She is. It doesn’t take long for Her to follow, walking down the small corridor of shelves, voice soft as she asks her protegee what kind of book she likes the most and if she’ll let Her read it for her. On the other side of the shelf, Harry is shamelessly watching her through the gap in the books, bathing in her voice as she talks and laughs away.

Harry tries to be quiet as she moves, feet light on the floorboard as she follows Her, not paying attention to where she’s going or to the books in front of her, not paying attention to anything but Her. She feels stupid, hand lifted and passing by the spines of the books in a caress, fingers following Her image through the small gap. Her fingertips sting, either from the rough texture of some books or from the absence of its desired touch, Harry doesn’t know, doesn’t care. She’s lost herself again, this time her focus not on summaries or known authors, but on Her, and everything She _is_.

Speaking of, She looks down at her little friend and smiles, crinkles appearing by her eyes, sharp cheekbones softened. Harry stops then, brain not filtering their talk or anything else, too occupied in remembering every detail of Her so close, face turned to Her friend giving the false impression it’s towards Harry.

Struck by this image, it doesn’t take long from the high to turn into guilt, Harry realizing she’s intruding in something she wasn’t invited to, the other parties not even aware of Harry’s presence there. The blind happiness that bubbled in her stomach when she saw Her, the stupor that took over Harry from Her smile disappears instantly, taken over by shame.

Harry leans forward, resting her forehead against the shelf and closing her eyes to take a deep sigh. It doesn’t work in her favour, though, breaking her dramatic scene of self denial by a series of sneezes, one louder than the other, unstoppable in their force. Luckily she didn’t headbutt herself on the shelf, but her cover is blown either way, probably the whole store aware of her being due to her sneezes.

It had been dumb sheer luck she hadn’t had one of her fits before in such a dusty place, so of course the universe would present her with one in the present situation. Harry doesn’t have to think, then, covering her mouth and nose with her scarf and walking with fast, strong steps out of the bookstore, sneezes shaking her form as she goes.

It’s only when she arrives home and tucks herself in her bed, slightly humiliated and breathing normally again, that she realizes she didn’t buy any books. By then, that’s just one more reason to drag her mood down even more, along with the fact Harry still seems to be fascinated by Her, even away from Her skate park, even if Harry doesn’t know why.

But that’s not true, is it?

Either way, Harry decides, it’s all Louie’s fault.

(And there they are. Goosebumps.)

 

X

 

“Why does it feel like I have no clothes when I have a literal mountain on top of my bed?” Harry grumbles, picking up her shirts from said mountain and discarding them just as quickly. “There’s literally nothing to wear.”

“That’s twice you said literally in a single breath,” Liam whistles from her place in her bed, lazily scratching her belly as she watches Harry move around their dorm, “Damn, you must be nervous.”

“I’m not!” Harry tries to deny, sitting down heavily when she realizes how stupid it is to do so. “It’s just, you know? Like, you know?”

“I will if you actually say something,” Liam chuckles good naturally.

“It’s not my first time out, but it’s my first time out in London with a group of people I’m trying to make friends with. I want them to like me and invite me more times?” Harry finishes sheepishly, hands wringling one of her old t-shirts anxiously. “Which is stupid, because we already kind of went out before, but like. It kind of feels different now.”

“Why?”

 _Because I feel different_ , Harry doesn’t say.

“I dunno, it just does. I know, it’s stupid, isn’t it? Yes, it is.” Harry repeats, defeated by her own circling thoughts.

“Yes, it is,” Liam agrees, “doesn’t change the fact that’s how you feel, though. But like, shouldn’t you be having fun instead of being anxious? Isn’t that the whole idea? Do what you want?”

Harry bites her lips and shrugs a bit. That’s the whole problem, doing what she wants when she’s not really sure of what it is - or if she’s brave enough to do it, if she truly should. It’s kind of hard to do so when what she wants isn’t what she grew up thinking she should want, if that makes sense. Bottom line is: Harry thinks she wants something out of her original plans and doesn’t know how to deal with it, not yet. Maybe soon.

“I guess.”

“ _I guess_ ,” Liam mocks her, rolling her eyes but not unkindly. “Come on, where’s my super confident roommate? Miss ‘I’ll knock-knock my way for your friendship’?” Liam turns sideways, supporting her head on her arm, looking straight up at Harry.

“She’s afraid of getting knock-knocked over.” Harry answers with a pout, trying - unsuccessfully - to contain her smile at Liam’s eyeroll. “You get it? Because-”

“Yes, _Harry_ , I got it, thanks.” Liam deadpans, a tired look on her smiles before she smiles at Harry as well. “See? That’s how you’ll fit right in, being just you.”

Harry’s smile wavers a little on her face. She licks her lips nervously.

“Li?”

Liam hums.

“What if who I am is like, not what I thought I was?” Harry nervously puts her hair behind her ears, hands restless, undecided on what to do - puts hair back, plays with the tips, crack her fingers, taps on her legs.

“What do you mean?” Liam is out of Harry’s vision, but her voice still sounds soft. Harry bets her face does as well, her brown eyes always kind.

Harry reflects on what she should answer, if she even has anything to answer. It’s not as if she knows what she’s talking about, although she has a feeling. Foreboding, and terribly unsettling, feeling. “Nothing, it was just nonsense, you know? Just thinking out loud.” Harry mumbles later, after Liam calls her name twice more to bring her back from her thoughts.

“If you’re sure,” Liam says slowly, unsure. Then her voice perks up a bit, “Hey, look at this one. Never saw you wearing it,” she leans down from her bed, stretching her arm to grab a shirt from under the huge pile on Harry’s bed. “This one looks good, I bet you’d look great in it.”

If Harry was being honest, she doesn’t know why she brought that shirt, why she still has it. She bought it about 2 years ago, as an early birthday gift for herself. She had thought she looked cute in it, a simple red flannel, buttoned almost all the way to the top to keep her warm and  stylish. Her boyfriend from back then hadn’t agreed, though, saying she looked tomboy-ish and telling her to return it. She hadn’t returned it, but didn’t wear it again, afraid of what people would say about her.

“I don’t think-”

“Come on, use it with your leather jacket? The one you rarely use but definitely should use more?” Liam throws the shirt in Harry’s direction carelessly, both of them watching it flop down to the ground.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit… much?” Harry tries, voice slow as she makes up in her mind how she’d look like. She grabs the shirt from the ground, considering it carefully when she sits back on her bed.

“Of course not, it’s simple and yet stylish enough for going out. White shirt, flannel, jacket then your jeans and boots and done.” Liam grabs her phone from her bedside, smiling as she types away on it.

Harry takes it as her dismissal, grabbing the clothes Liam said she should and putting them on slowly, long since used to changing clothes in front of her. Luckily, the shirt still fits Harry, even if a little tight on the shoulders. She feels weird, though, conscious of the memory of her ex-boyfriend in the back of her mind, but happy with the final result she sees in the mirror in front of her.

“Told you it’d look good.” Liam’s voice invades Harry’s thoughts, reminding her where she is, all those years in the future with no boyfriend and no reason to be so wary.

“Are you sure? Don’t I look a bit, you know?” Or maybe not, but Harry likes to call herself a work in progress.

“A bit what?” Liam repeats, confused.

“You know.” Harry mumbles, suddenly ashamed of herself for what she’s trying to say, the words she’s trying to repeat, what they imply.

“I don’t?”

Harry shrugs, choosing to drop the subject instead. “Should I tie my hair?”

Liam bites her lips, concentrated stare on Harry who looks back, confused by her sudden mood. “I think I’ve got a better idea… I probably should wait to give it to you, but I think it’ll look so good and… no better time than the present, right?”

“What do you mean?” Harry asks.

“Here,” Liam opens her bedside table’s drawer, taking a small package from the inside. “I bought this for your birthday, if you want I can hold it till it’s time, but I think you’d like to wear it right now. At least I’d know you actually liked it.” She ends it with a self deprecating tone, as if unsure Harry would like her gift.

Curious, Harry can’t stop herself from walking the small distance to sit beside Liam, grabbing the package and putting it on her lap. “Can I open it?”

“Of course you can, it’s your gift.” Liam smiles softly. “Tell me if you like it, and no lying.”

“Okay,” Harry laughs softly, unwrapping the gift carefully. It’s a small package, probably done by the store Liam bought it. She tears the papers open at the corners, opening up enough space to take out what looks like a piece of fabric. It’s soft in her hands, too small and thin to be a proper scarf. “What…?”

“It’s a headscarf. I didn’t know if you had one, never saw you wearing one, but I thought you’d like? I saw it on the salesperson and she had curly hair like you and I thought, you know?” Liam shrugs shyly. “Thought it’d look good. Sorry if you didn’t like it.”

“I…”

“Here, let me put it on you.” Liam pulls the headscarf from Harry’s hands, wrapping it around Harry’s head as she lays pliant, waiting for Liam to finish it. “Damn, I was right, it looks cool.”

“Really?” Harry’s voice is still a bit unsure.

“Yeah, go take a look in the mirror. If you don’t like it I can return it, but I loved it on you.” Liam’s voice is kind as always, and Harry has no doubt that if she doesn’t like it, Liam won’t be mad if she tells the truth. However, when Harry takes a look at her reflection, she knows without a doubt Liam won’t be returning it anytime soon.

It’s kind of weird, this feeling you get when you see yourself as you should be for the first time. And it’s not as if Harry made a huge change: she just got out of her comfort zone and settled in her skin. In 5 minutes she managed to put herself together how she had wanted her whole life, but didn’t have the courage or even the support she needed, instead settling for something similar to what she saw around her everyday.

Never let it be said fashion isn’t a statement from your own self.

“I like it alright.” Harry fixes the scarf a little bit, putting her hair this way and that to see how it works from all angles. She lets it fall on top of her collarbones in the end.

“You sure? Because it would be no problem-”

“I’m sure, Li. Thank you very much, I love it.” Harry turns around and smiles at Liam, trying to show her how much she likes it.

“Really? Oh good, then. I guess my guess paid off, then. It looks great on you.” Liam grins, raising two thumbs up towards Harry.

“Thanks, Li.” Harry takes the compliments Liam give her as courage to gather her things and leave their dorm, waving Liam goodbye and making her way down to the pub.

She hugs herself, glad for the extra layer the flannel offers inside her heavy jacket. January’s cold is unstoppable, no matter how many layers you wear, it always finds a way to crawl up your skin - and so does doubt. By the end of their street, Harry is already wondering if she did the right thing, if she shouldn’t go back and change, take those clothes off and put maybe a white sweater with her brown boots. Leave the scarf so as not to upset Liam, it’s not as if anyone would think anything from just a scarf, not with clothes that weren’t the ones she is wearing right now.

Maybe she should change. Better be late then look stupid or.

Or like a.

But maybe.

Harry stops in the middle of the street, sighing, frustrated. She knows she’s being stupid, feels even more when someone trips on her and curses loudly. She takes one, two, three deep breaths, before she starts walking again. It isn’t a long way from her home to the pub, but when she gets inside, she’s still cold.

She can see her classmates sitting at a table by the corner and she takes her coat off, making her way slowly, the skin at the back of her neck prickly, telling her there was still time to turn back. She keeps walking, though, avoiding other tables and patrons till she makes it, greeting everyone and sitting down beside Jonathan.

Jonathan, who is kind of cute, kind of sweet, kind of funny, and very interested in Harry when she really is… not. Jonathan, who finds every reason to try and talk to Harry in class, who asked her once if she wanted to go out to drink a coffee (and got rejected but took it very well, thankfully), who is part of the group of friends she’s slowly making in class but who won’t stop trying to catch her attention the whole night long.

It’s exhausting.

After her third pint and after telling Jonathan yet again that week alone that no, she still didn’t know what she was gonna write her paper about, yes, she’s aware she’s really late already, no, she isn’t scared, she’s just uninspired, she excuses herself and goes to the bathroom. The line isn’t long, but still she takes a long time till she’s in front of the mirror, washing her hands and checking herself in the mirror yet again. Her scarf is still in place, her flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Liam was right, she looks kind of cool. Nick even complimented her when she arrived.

“Oh, good, you’re still here.”

Harry turns to see Jamie get in the bathroom, making her way towards Harry instead of the stalls.

“Yes?”

“I meant to talk to you, was hoping to catch you here alone still.” Jamie leans on the sink, ignoring the other women in the small space and inviting with her body language alone for Harry to do the same. “You should just tell him the truth, we’re all okay with this kind of thing and all, you know. Nobody will shun you out or anything.”

Harry tilts her head a bit, confused. “What do you mean?”

“You should tell Jonathan you’re a lesbian. Nobody will care, you know? Just don’t string the poor boy along when you’ve got no interest in him.” She crosses her arms, the neckline of her shirt being pulled down a bit by her arms, showing a bit of cleavage and catching Harry’s attention for a second. “I swear we’re all cool with it.”

Harry braces herself, arms pulling her shirt tighter against her back, a fake laugh leaving her worried mouth. “What do you mean?”

“Listen, it’s quite obvious you’re not interested. And it’s very obvious you’re a lesbian as well, so just tell him and let him move on. It’s not nice to string people along, that’s all I’m saying, you know? Don’t take it personal.” Jamie smiles, patting Harry on the arm twice before turning around and going for an empty stall.

Harry passes her hand where Jamie tapped, trying to rub the chill away from her skin unsuccessfully. She feels wrong. Naked. Ugly and tiny and out of place. Maybe she shouldn’t have come. Maybe she should try harder. Maybe she could be better.

She leaves the bathroom and makes her way back to the table, sitting back down where she was before, instantly sensing Jonathan drape his arm on the back of her spot on the bench. She tries to ease the tension of her back, trying to calm her instant response to lock her body down and away from the touch. She eases herself back against the back, feeling the warmth of his arm on her shoulders, trying to pay attention to whatever Nick was talking and laughing about.

It didn’t take long for Jamie to come back from the bathroom as well, Harry focusing extra harder on Nick’s story in order to try and ignore Jamie’s gaze and her overall existence. Harry smiled bigger, laughing louder and falling sideways to Jonathan’s chest because of Nick’s punchline. By the end of the night, it took no one by surprise when she turned to Jonathan and asked him if he wanted to go out again sometime next week, just the two of them. And when they stepped out of the pub and Jonathan agreed with a huge smile and an enthusiastic exchange of phone numbers before he left, Harry felt cold and guilt settle in once again, an uncomfortable chill running down her spine.

It shouldn’t feel this wrong when she knows this was the right thing to do.

She just feels lost.

X

She stopped trying to find reasons a long time ago, but today, she really doesn’t have one. One minute she is making her usual way back home, the next she is entering the park she’d been avoiding for the whole month. And for the first time since the first day she entered the park, she lets herself wander in it, looking everywhere, watching the people all over it, running, walking. It was cold but there wasn’t any heavy snow, not like she’d seen during her childhood back north, so people were still able to enjoy the weak sun hours wearing their heavy coats.

Everything looks wet, misty. Winter has a gracefulness to it, but in reality it almost looks dead.  A never ending cold gripping to your bones, naked trees all around reaching upwards, trying to tell you something, anything. But mostly, even in the middle of London, winter looks quiet - and quietness is something Harry is uncomfortably familiar with.

She’d been ignoring everyone since three days ago, since she blurted out an invitation she didn’t want to be a part of or follow through. There is about 20 unanswered messages from her new friends, about 3 encounters with Liam cut short.

She doesn’t know why she does this. She used to be better, surer of herself. She doesn’t know where she stands now, who she is, what she should be doing.

(Wasn’t college supposed to be the best time of her life?)

She keeps walking aimlessly, hugging herself to protect her body from the cold wind. The weather hadn’t been enough to ward off a group of little kids that were playing around, their watchful moms nearby, talking and moving in place to warm themselves. A pang echoes through her mind, a thought of a life she’d never have, not if she is different, not if she doesn’t stick to the path. Harry averts her gaze, choosing another path that took her away from the previous sight.

Among her walk, all the time, in the back of her mind there was the skatepark.

Would she be there?

Will they even hold classes in the cold?

What if there was a new day of classes, what if Harry was late - or early -, what if she recognized Harry from the last time?

The last time.

Harry raises her gloved hand and passes it at the back of her neck, willing herself to remember the soft touch, the surprise she’d felt, the chills running down her spine. She drops her hand abruptly, making herself forget, keep walking. She knows she’s being stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid. She’s holding onto something that doesn’t make sense, that defies what she knows.

(Gay people are others, not her. Never her.)

Yet here she is, betrayed by her feet again, staring straight into the skate park.

“Crazy, isn’t it?” Harry startles, turning around to see a blonde with the dumbest hat she’d ever seen someone wear outside of instagram standing beside her. “I always ask myself why the fuck they choose to skate outside in a weather like this, but my mate always tells me something as stupid as cold weather would never take her away from her one true passion.”

Harry isn’t sure why the girl is talking to her, or even if she should answer, but she tries anyway. “...Skating?”

“No, making fun of children when they fall off.” The blonde smiles big at Harry’s affronted gasp. “Joking, just joking. Yeah, skating, but between us two, I think her true passion is teaching, you know? She’s amazing with kids.”

With a turn of her head, Harry can see Her in the distance, her back hunched a bit so she can talk to her student a bit closer. Louie.

“Are one of the children yours?”

“Huh?” Harry turns back to the girl, sees her staring straight into Harry.

“The children. Saw you standing here, looking over at the park. Did you come grab them? What is it, big sister? Nanny?”

“Er, no. I was just,” Harry knows it’ll sound lame before she even finishes it, but she has nothing else to say. “Passing by. Looking.”

The girl looks at Harry up and down, blue eyes thoughtful before she breaks into a grin. “There’s no use in looking from so far away, let’s go a bit closer, how about that? There’s a bench over there.”

Harry knows it, she’s been sitting on that bench and privately calling it her bench for over three months. Still, she follows silently, letting the blonde’s chatter flow away.

“You look a bit lost, are you new here? Accent is a bit different, but who am I to talk, right? Look at me, proper Irish and all, so white the sun reflects of my arse, Zaynie always makes sure to tease me because of it, that cunt. What is it? You from up north? Manchester area?”

“Holmes Chapel.”

“Ah! Proper posh, then.” She laughed loudly, the strings from her hat dancing in the wind along with her hair. There was a bobble on top of it. Overall, the hat wouldn’t be so ugly, weren’t it bright orange. “I shouldn’t know this shit, right, I’m from another whole country, but I’ve been living here for the past two years and my God do londoners like to complain. So I guess I caught a thing or two. Have you been here long?”

“Since the beginning of uni.”

“Ah! You’re a first year!” By then they’d arrived Harry’s bench, the girl passing a gloved hand to take away any dirt off it before they sat down. “What are you studying? You sound the proper serious one, what is it? Law? Medicine? Engineering? Astronomy?”

“Uh, Literature.”

“A fan of words! Yet not very talkative,” The girl laughs loudly at her own joke, looking over at Harry with a concerned face. “Sorry, I hope I didn’t offend you.”

“That’s ok, it’s not a lie, is it?”

“Well, so far…” The girl shrugged, as if unbothered. “My name is Neala, but I prefer Niall. It’s Irish, of course. Means passionate, vehement. Comes from the legend of Niall of the Nine Hostages, a fellow who earned the throne because he was the only one brave enough to kiss a woman.” Niall smiles big, cheeks red from the cold, “well, legend says it was an ugly woman, but I don’t believe there’s a single ugly woman out there. Except maybe Theresa May.” She laughs again.

“Why’d you prefer a male name?” Harry asks, curious.

“My brother used to say I was like a little brother when I was a kid, because I refused to behave girly.” Niall shrugs, “called me ‘Niall’ as a joke, it kinda stuck. I don’t even respond if you call me Neala, to be honest. Why would I want to be a ‘female champion’ when I can be a king?”

“Or a Queen?”

“Nah, I leave that to Freddie Mercury,” Niall smiles again, resting both her arms on the back of the bench, “and Zaynie, of course.”

Harry hums, lost on what to do.

“What’s your name?”

“Harriet.” Harry smiles, lips curving upwards and teeth hidden. She knows she’s not being very open, but she’s still confused over what Niall is doing, why she invited her over.

(Why Harry followed.)

“Pretty name.”

“Thank you.” Harry glances downwards, playing with her fingers on top of her thighs.

“Matches you, you’re a pretty girl.”

Harry freezes, terrified over what that means. She doesn’t know what to do. There’s nothing wrong in being called pretty by a girl, God knows she grew up hearing from other girls how pretty she was, calling them beautiful, pretty, hot, gorgeous as well. There’s no reason for Harry to feel struck, paralyzed by the compliment. “Thank you,” she whispers, thinking if it would be rude for her to get up and walk away.

“I mean it,” Niall continues, as if there’s nothing wrong with what she said. “Hope you’ve been told that.”

Harry keeps quiet. Unmoving.

Niall must sense her uneasiness, because she soon changes the subject, instead asking Harry about her uni, if she likes her subject, what’s her favourite book. Somehow, Harry finds herself responding to Niall’s eagerness, telling her about her coursework, about the paper she’s writing, about her favourite teacher and the one she hates. About poetry and Bromtë’s work. About Bukowski. About growing up in a small town and barely waiting to go to Manchester, to see the people, to find new books. About finding time in her life to her friends, her family and her hobbies, about thinking if it’s worth it to turn a hobby into a career.

Niall listens to her, face open, eyes clear and judgement free. She answers Harry with more questions, adding tidbits of her own life, about growing up in a small town, of smelling the countryside (“ _what they write in the books is a lie, Harriet, the countryside doesn’t smell that good, it smells like cow shitte_ ”), of wanting to go to a big city. Of coming to London at 17 wanting to make it big, wanting to be a musician, of finding friends and a new life in the city, so different to what she was used to.

“Why not Dublin?” Harry asks, curious, arms crossed against the wind and attention focused on Niall.

Niall shrugs. “Why not Manchester?”

“Touché.” Harry laughs. “I guess I wanted to see what was it all about London that the world can’t stop gushing about.”

“Gushing about London? Is it one of your posh poets? Is it Rimbaud?”

“ _O my Good! O my Beauty! Atrocious fanfare in which I never falter!_ ” A voice calls out. Harry turns her head away from Niall’s loud laugh to see a brunette girl walking towards them, a few steps away, but close enough to hear what they were talking about.

“Is that how I summon you now? By saying the name of one of your men out loud? Who is next,” Niall giggles, opening her legs wider for the girl to sit on her lap. “Is it Stark?” She gasps theatrically, grinning wider when the girl sits on her lap and holds her face, kissing her while she continues, “is it Potter? Because I just befriended a Harry for you here.”

“Shut up, you idiot.” The girl smiles, giving Niall a last peck before she straightens herself and looks at a transfixed Harry. “Are you the Harry, then?”

“What?” Harry mumbles, unblinking stare on the girl’s face, avoiding to look over where Niall is nuzzling into the girl’s shoulder.

“Harry, the Harry this one befriended.”

“Oh yeah, she’s Harry Potter alright, as you can see by her green eyes and hair all over the place. I bet there’s even a lightning scar behind the beanie.” Niall jokes, howling when the girl pinches her cheek. They kiss one more time before looking back at Harry, both staring curiously at her and her lack of reaction.

“Yes!” Harry blurts out, awkwardly. “Yes, I’m Harriet, my name is Harriet. Styles. Not Potter. Nice to meet you.”

“Zayn.” The girl says, watching Harry attentively.

“What?” Harry asks eloquently.

“My name is Zayn.”

“Oh.” Harry looks at Niall, sees her watching Harry curiously and focus back on Zayn. “Nice to meet you.”

Zayn just smiles, the side of her mouth lifting a bit more than the other. It’s not a proper smirk, it just looks amused, almost mysterious. Harry can’t look away.

Zayn must be the most beautiful girl she’s ever seen. Even with the cold, she’s wearing a leather jacket, jeans and boots. No hat. No gloves. Just a scarf, black one to match her overall clothes. Harry can see tattoos peaking off her hand, her red lipstick a bit smeared due to her kissing Niall. Niall, with a bright orange bobble hat and a fluffy, shapeless grey coat. Separated, they look from two different worlds. Together, they fit.

For the first time in all of Harry’s life, she’s jealous of someone else’s relationship. She’s seen her friends parading boyfriends, had had her fair share of dates and a long term relationship, but for the first time in her life she sees a glimpse of something so easy, so right she can’t help but want it with every fiber of her being.

So she swallows her words, her questions, and takes her gaze away. In the distance, she sees Louie getting impulse with one foot to skate down the length of the park, her students watching her.

By her side, she can hear Niall and Zayn whispering to each other, their voices too low for Harry to make out anything. She lets them have their privacy, the burning of a longing weighing on her stomach, making her sick with her own reaction. At the same time, the most terrifying feeling of wrongness tries to rip her apart, tries to convince her to get up and walk away without looking back, to make her talk out loud about how that’s wrong, this Zayn and Niall thing. Neala.

Nothing sounds right here. Harry still doesn’t know why she followed the stranger. Why she still sits.

“Harry, I’m going to go buy some coffee to ward off the cold, do you want some?”

Harry startles, looking sideways to see Zayn get up with a last caress to Niall’s hand, letting it go as she steps away towards where Harry knows there’s a small store. “No, thank you, I’ll be leaving soon.”

Zayn hums. “Ok. Take care, then.”

“You too.”

Zayn winks towards Niall and leaves with a last half hearted wave, steps slow and sure towards the vendor. Harry turns her gaze away, looking down at her hands once more.

Silence settles between her and Niall and Harry can’t find anything in her mind to break it, not when there’s an internal tug-of-war pulling her in every other direction. Is it right? Is it wrong? No, she’s not homophobic, people can do what they want, her mom taught her better, she knows better, love is love, but then why does she react like this. Why-

But no, never her. It’s okay with others, but this kind of shit doesn’t happen with her. She isn’t-

“I hope we didn’t make you uncomfortable.” Niall’s voice breaks the silence. In the distance, Harry can hear children screaming in delight and even if she’s curious to what may have happened in front of them, she’s not brave enough to raise her head.

“It’s ok.” Harry mumbles.

Niall hums, arms settling on the back of the bench, extending all the way to the back of Harry’s place, making her clench unconsciously. Niall snorts. “You can relax, Harry, in case you haven’t realized, Zayn is my girlfriend and I won’t hit on you. We’re very steady and very faithful to each other as well.”

“No, it’s, I, I-” Harry tries to explain herself, unsure of what she even wants to say, words tumbling out of her mouth awkwardly. She shuts up after she doesn’t find anything good enough to say.

Silence stretches between them, Niall beating a rhythm with her fingers on her leg, Harry avoiding look at her in general.

“I’m sorry.” Harry finally stutters out, not really sure why but knowing she should apologize.

“It’s ok,” Niall replies, eyes fixed in front of them. “It’s not everyone who’s cool with gay people, so I dunno. Maybe I should even been thanking you for sticking around, I guess. For not saying anything unsavory.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything like that.” Harry mumbles, self defensive.

“But did you think it?” Niall’s voice isn’t accusatory. It sounds almost tired. Harry keeps quiet, ashamed of herself. Niall continues, “you’re not the first, you probably won’t be the last. It’s not exactly usual to you lot, is it? Almost scary, I’d believe. The other kind of people out there.”

“Niall-”

“Why were you standing out there?” Niall doesn’t let Harry try to explain herself, instead turning to her with a watchful gaze. “When I found you. You had such a fixed stare you didn’t even hear me approach you. What were you looking at?”

“I-”

“Zayn told me this is not the first time she sees you around here. That you looked awfully alone. You still do.”

“I don’t-”

“I think I’m overstepping here, Harriet, but you look like a nice girl and yet your eyes look awfully sad.” Niall leans forward, her face closer to Harry, eyes searching everywhere on Harry’s face. “There’s nothing wrong about us, you know.”

Harry blanches backwards, her back ramrod straight against the back of the bench. “What?”

“Me and Zayn. Louis. There’s nothing wrong with us. I think you should know that, I don’t know if you can see it from all the way over here on your bench.”

Your.

Bench.

Harry abruptly gets up, dusting her butt off and then crossing her arms against her chest. “I’ve got to go, Niall. It was nice to meet you.”

“Harry-” Niall tries to get up, but Harry doesn’t wait for her, walking away without looking back, steps quick towards the entrance of the Park, as far away as possible from the skatepark, from Niall, from the bench.

From Louie.

She fumbles with her hand, biting the bit of her gloves to take them away, taking her phone out of her coat’s pocket with her now unprotected hand, typing a message as fast as her freezing fingers can.

_Jonathan: Hey Harriet! I’m thinking of a movie this friday, what do you think? :) we can have  dinner afterwards? I heard of a nice italian that opened near the movies._

_Me: sounds amazing :*_

 

X

 

Harry wakes with a start, a light pounding in her head from the wine she drank last night.

Last night.

Before she can delve into thoughts from it, she feels again the hand caressing her back, the light feel of fingers running down the length of her back and up again.

“Good morning, gorgeous.” Jonathan whispers from behind her, his hot breath gripping the back of her neck, making her tense her shoulders to stop feeling it, to try and get away. “Last night was amazing.” He kisses her raised shoulders, his hand falling on her waist and his thumb circling her flesh carefully.

Harry closes her eyes and tries not to cry. She’s fucked up. She fucked up. God, this is a mess.

“Harry?” Jonathan tries again, the bed shaking a bit as he gets up to try and look at her face - Harry quickly hides it against the pillow, dreading the talk it’d rise if he saw the tears that managed to escape. “Babe? Are you awake?”

“Yeah,” she clears her throat, “yeah, sorry. Still asleep, though.”

“I can hear that.” Jonathan laughs, kissing her shoulder again. He whispers against her skin, “I know a way to wake you up real good, though.”

Harry feels her face crumble and is oh so glad she hid it away from the world. Jonathan is a nice guy, he doesn’t deserve her and her mess. Still, she takes a second to recompose herself, lets him keep kissing her back, caressing her waist before she moves away, getting up with her back still turned to him.

“I’m sorry, Jonathan, but I need to go.”

Silence reigns for a moment, in which Harry is too much of a coward to face him. She chooses the floor under her naked feet instead.

“Harry? Are you sure you’re alright?” His voice wavers a little. “Did I do… something?”

“No! No, you’re fine, I just…” Harry’s voice dies down, unable to carry the weight of her excuses. “I need to go.” She finishes with a small voice, hoping she doesn’t have to repeat herself.

It seems Jonathan hears her alright in the silence of his room, if his little ‘oh’ is anything to go by. The silence stretches unnecessarily, neither of them sure what they should say. Harry knows she should get up and dress herself, but she’s suddenly shy, dreading the notion of Jonathan seeing her naked yet again. She braces herself, hands trying to rub the chills off her arms while she looks for her clothes on the floor of the bedroom. Gladly, she can see them all, every piece thrown in a different corner but still there.

She swears she’s never felt so much shame in her whole life.

“I’ll go make breakfast. Please, tell me at least you’ll eat something.” Jonathan tries again, a hint of hope in his voice. Harry says nothing, but shakes her head minutely. A second later, she hears the rustle of the sheets, the padding of feet and then the door opening and closing back again.

She rubs both her eyes with the palm of her hands, trying to shove her tears and her anguish back. She never felt so wrong in her life, the dread of what she did, of what she did to Jonathan weighing on her shoulders. She takes a deep breath then gets up, dresses herself quickly and gets out of the room, hugging her bag in front of her as a barrier between her and confrontation. She finds Jonathan in the kitchen, turned towards the stove, the smell of bacon drifting through his house.

“I’m making egg and bacon sandwich, please tell me you’ll eat them.” He turns with a smile, but it fades when he sees Harry carrying her bag and wearing last night clothes. “I guess that’s a no, then. Can I at least ask what’s going on? I thought we had a good time last night.”

“We did! It’s just,” Harry bites her lips, unsure on how to continue. “Maybe we should… Maybe we’re better off as friends.”

Jonathan gives an ugly snort, his hand passing over his face tiredly. “Friends.” He repeats sardonically. When Harry gives a small shrug he shakes his head in disbelief, “I can’t fucking believe you.”

“Jonathan,” Harry tries, unsure on what to say. If she should apologize.

“You knew,” He takes a deep breath before continuing, “ _you knew_ I liked you. God, and I thought last night had been so magical, so good. But it was just me, wasn’t it?”

Harry feels a pang of shame cut through her gut. She knows what he’s talking about, about how Harry had ridden him, about how loud she’d come.

He doesn’t know who she was thinking about, though.

“I’m sorry.” She says, voice small.

Jonathan turns, taking the pan off the stove and turning it off. He puts it aside, using both arms on the counter to hold his weight up. Harry doesn’t know if she should leave, or if she should say something else. She just keeps quiet.

“I won’t say it’s okay, Harry, because it’s not.” He sighs again. “But I can’t force you to like me.”

Harry hugs her bag closer to her body. She almost wishes he could, in a twisted way.

“I can offer you breakfast, at least.”

“Thank you,” Harry manages to answer, “but I’d rather not.”

He sighs again. “You’re right. I’ll see you, I guess.”

“Yeah.” Harry smiles small at him when he turns to look at her. “See you then.”

She walks away, not looking back, not caring to wait on anything else from him.

She knows what she did was wrong, to both of them. It wasn’t fair to use Jonathan, someone who she knew liked her and who she ended up exploiting. But in a dark, twisted way, she’s glad it was him, because if someone as nice and good looking as Jonathan couldn’t do it for her, no one else could.

Or, no other man.

The night had been nice. No other word for it. They’d watched a movie, some romantic comedy Harry ate straight up from, but in no moment did she see herself as the main character, aching for a love like the one from the handsome guy she was pining for. She didn’t see herself and Jonathan, at least. She understood intimately, for the first time in her life, what pining truly felt like and it really wasn’t for him.

None of his touches did it for her either. His arm on the back of her chair felt entrapping, the body heat coming from his side too close for comfort. She lost herself in the movie, willing to forget her setting and live through what the story in front of her was talking about, trying to forget her own. Then the movie ended, of course, and she let herself be kissed in the still mostly dark of the room. The kiss felt like every other kiss she’d ever given and received so far: like a kiss. Lips touching, a bit of tongue, nothing to write home about.

Dinner felt like a night out with a friend. They talked, laughed, ate together. There wasn’t any fluttering on Harry’s part, just the happiness of sharing a meal with someone you cherished. A friend. Meanwhile, she could see the looks Jonathan gave her, the weight of them too much for her to deal with. So she turned to wine, her best friend. And if by the end of the meal she was a bit on the tipsy side? It just helped her to push through, to say yes to Jonathan and to go back home with him; to give her the courage to kiss him deep, to take her top off, to put a condom on him, to let him enter her.

Gave her the courage to tell him to move, to let her be on top instead.

Gave her the inhibition to close her eyes and try to think of anything to truly turn her on besides the mechanical movement of dick fucking into her.

Gave her the freedom to imagine Her, Louie, under Harry instead, with a strap on as Harry rode her, her hips moving down so hard she made Louie come from the friction alone.

When Harry had come down from her high and opened her eyes, it’d be nothing but disappointing to see Jonathan under her instead, panting hard as he’d apparently come the same time as Harry. Then fear entered her, the dread she’d mumbled the wrong name or anything incriminating at all. Luckily, either she didn’t or Jonathan had been too out of it to hear her.

By the time he’d move out to throw the condom away, Harry had already dropped sideways and fallen asleep, legs trembling from the strongest orgasm she’d ever had with a guy, mind drifting with the hope of dreaming about Louie again.

The morning after could be nothing more but the disaster it’d been, obviously.

Harry’s thoughts keeps circling over what she did, a torment of shame and guilt coursing through her body. By the time she makes it to her and Liam’s dorm, she can only feel relief when she finds it empty before the tears fall again, her sobs echoing through the silence. She cries through every motion of a shower, washing away the memory of last night and the earlier morning from her hair, her skin. Washing her cunt brings a new wave of shame, the wetness in it a proof of her crime, her shame. The hot shower would almost feel cleansing, magically so, were she not feeling so wrong on the inside.

When she’s done, she brushes her teeth and puts on her favourite pajamas. She doesn’t care her hair is wet, she doesn’t care about charging her phone, she just lies down under her covers and tries to forget.

Sleep can’t come soon enough.

 

X

 

Harry is grateful to wake up later that day with no remembrance of her dreams, not even a residual feeling of what they could have been about.

She rolls around in her bed, clutching her heavy blanket as if life itself depended on it. And considering how awful she feels? It might as well. The problem is that she soon grows restless, too many thoughts battling in her head, too many conflicting opinions and emotions. And, obviously, the almighty urge to suppress them all. She settles for going to the bathroom and getting dressed for a walk instead.

The cold wind quickly turns her nose red, the dripping from it irritating enough to distract her. She pushes her sleeve up her hand and rubs the tip of her nose as she keeps walking towards nowhere.

In her mind, she’s going through the hero (heroin) struggle, the build up for the big conflict, the moment of truth. Every cold chill running down her spine whispers to her she already knows what she needs to know, that she’s stubbornly avoiding the truth staring at her straight in the face.

It’s not easy, she knows, to listen to her conscience, to accept something that might turn her worldview. _The thing_ , though, is that nothing is quite new for her, not if she’s true to herself.

And she figures this is the moment she should be. It’s long overdue already.

The first time she felt she was different, she was 7 years old and her favourite Ranger was the yellow one, not because she was cute (she was) but because she was the strongest. The fiercest. And Harry, although she didn’t (doesn’t) describe herself as fierce, she was (is) intimately attracted to people (women) like that, sure of themselves. She later learned none of her friends agreed, instead choosing the pink one as their favourite because they liked pink or thought she was the cutest one. Harry learned it was easier to agree, even if she doesn’t.

Then, of course, she forgot about it and grew up. And out of her friends, she had a best friend, breaking the unspoken rule of ‘everyone in the group was equally best friends’. It was their secret, hers and Lydia’s, that they were each other besties.

But Harry.

 _Harry_ always behaved like they were more. Why would she care about boys when she was busy talking to Lydia on the phone after classes? Or figuring out the internet together, speaking to each other online till late at night? When she could spend the day with Lydia and talk to Lydia and be with Lydia and.

And then Lydia got a boyfriend and everyone in the group was or had been with someone except Harry. And she found herself alone. And she got a boyfriend who she wasn’t very sad to leave behind or very happy to stay with to begin with.

She thought she just wasn’t interested in sex, relationship or anything. She’d have fun with Abe, sure, but it felt mechanical, an ending forced out of pure friction. She didn’t love Abe, she didn’t miss him. And yet, she had been “the best girlfriend a boy could ever ask for”. She thinks how much of it wasn’t out of her pure disinterest in him, if not all. The ‘cool girl’ persona nothing but Harry just being… aloof.

With Lydia, however.

They had a big, huge fight that almost cost their friendship when they were both 16. Harry had gone too far, controlling too much, asking too much, feeling too much. She’d been jealous of Lydia with the other girls, jealous of Lydia with every hook up, demanding her attention, demanding her time alone with Harry and no one else, not when no one else mattered but the two of them in their little word.

Lydia had fought back, telling Harry to back off and that it was probably too much pent up sexual frustration and that she should _get laid_. Harry had replied angrily, telling Lydia to fuck off but - and here’s the million pounds but - she remembers vividly the absolutely irrational thought coursing through her body, the need to step forward, to kiss her.

She’d agreed on a date with Abe the next day, of course. Late at night, crying alone in her bedroom she figured the only reason that happened was because Lydia was right and she needed a date. She and Lydia got back to being best friends a month later.

But at the end of the day, she still had the memory, the crazed impulse to step forward and kiss. And for years, it scared the shit out of her. Along with every other suppressed memory. The play fights. The accidental touches. The internet searches out of pure _curiosity_. Even the fake laughs when people mentioned or shared lesbian porn as if it were nothing but a joke, as if it didn’t make Harry wetter than she’d been her whole life.

Now the problem is different, a voice on the back of her head saying she is too old to be figuring out something so big about herself. Recently made 19 years old and just now realizing she’s gay? Or maybe she’d known all along and just was too much of a chickenshit to assume it. To embrace it. To accept that she was. Is. Maybe. Without a doubt.

There had been a flicker of hope, that maybe she likes both instead of one. A free opportunity lover. That hopeful 50% of chance she’d end up with the right gender to bring back home. But considering her reaction the previous week with Jonathan, Harry doesn’t allow herself to continue with the farce for much longer, not when she’s still vulnerable from the backlash of feelings she had waking up.

She’s a lesbian. She can’t be anything else, not when the idea of a nameless woman brings out a reaction stronger than a two year relationship ever could, than any dreamy superhero Mr Chris out there, than any hook up. Rationality and feeling alone point to this conclusion, but still a thread of fear screams that she can’t be, not her, that this kind of shit doesn’t happen to her.

Somehow she ends up in a bookstore on the other side of her neighborhood seeking for refuge from her own thoughts - and from the outside world. She feels naked, exposed to herself and with her struggles laid out open for everyone to see and judge. The old lady frowning at her must know from smell alone what she’s done, what she is.

She finds peace among the other lives surrounding her, a billion pages of lives and people that are not her, with different problems, struggles, and outcomes. Some happy, some not. Some deserving, some not.

Harry thrives in it, and for the next couple of hours, she forgets herself.

She’s particularly distracted, humming to herself while she listens to music, perusing a fiction shelf with a bit of interest. Among them, she finds a book from one of the authors she’d read, a smile adorning her face by the familiarity of the name. She picks it up, admiring the cover in a deep blue, skipping the summary and the glowing recommendations instead to just leaf through it, looking for anything to catch her eye. And much like fate’s play, a phrasing does catch it. She reads it once, then rereads it. Then she takes her journal out of her bag, writes it down, puts her journal back in her bag and goes to the register to pay for her new book.

Later, she’ll learn that much like Tristran Thorn, she’s also in an awkward phase between a girl and a woman (all she needs is time, a moment that is hers), passing beyond the fields she knew into a completely new territory. And much like him, she hopes she doesn’t regret it, and that maybe, she finds love.

All she needs, for now, is to keep moving forwards.

And sometimes, it’s easier with the help of some old friends.

 

 

X

 

“...mum,” Harry sighs, trying again to catch her mother’s attention while she’s mid rant.

“But I told, I _told_ your sister that she should’ve bitten her tongue, but then what she does? Oh no, she _calls_ your aunt and she’s as she always is, always full of reason. Tells every reason why your aunt is wrong, why she shouldn’t have said that. Now tell me, Harry, does Gemma think about our Easter family lunch? It’s less than a month away and we both know she won’t apologize at all till then or after it.” Anne sighs, her breath carrying over Harry’s phone glued to her ear, her arm tired of holding it to it while she lays down on her bed, eyes glued on her ceiling and the other arm tapping nervously against her belly. “But let’s be honest just between us two, your aunt totally had it coming, I had to put on my exasperated face of course, but I was laughing internally all the time. Your sister is too much, sometimes, but-”

“Mum, I’m gay.”

Her mom stops talking immediately, silence stretching for a minute before she tries. “Harry?”

“I’m sorry, I wanted to tell you this weekend back home but I was too nervous. I know I should tell it to your face, but I guess I was too much of a coward. I’m sorry.”

Anne sighs again, but Harry takes comfort in the fact she doesn’t hang up to try and hold back her anxiety.

It had been a long time coming, this confession. Once Harry accepted it, this part of her she’d taken so long ignoring and suppressing, it was like a damp had been opened and she just… accepted it. It didn’t change much from her daily routine, except now she feels awkward among her class friends and avoids Jonathan like the plague. Besides that, it’s still a class-dorm kind of schedule, sometimes out looking for a job, other times out just looking at the city. And through it all, at the back of her head, the knowledge she had changed.

(Not really changed, because she’d always been gay. More like, embraced it. She even checked a girl out consciously once.)

Now there’s the hard part, the one where she confesses not only to herself, but to those closer to her. Her family and best friends. Even Liam, the roommate. She’d entertained the idea of telling Gemma first, but she felt it’d be unfair to her mother, her best friend, her anchor through a lifetime of happiness and disappointments, not to tell her first. So she was supposed to tell it at the weekend back home, talk at her mother’s kitchen over some tea, holding her hand and hugging her after she tells it all. In her mind, it’d be easy, her mother would be understanding and comforting, they’d laugh and nothing would change. In reality, Harry had gotten cold feet and lost so many opportunities by the time she was back in London, she felt nothing but contempt for herself and her stupidity.

Anne sighs again. Harry bites her lips, holding back in the tears, worst case scenarios running through her mind without her consent.

“My baby girl, my youngest. My lovely child. How long have you been holding this back from me?”

Harry sobs, bringing her hand up to hold the next noises in. Her mother’s voice is nothing but soft and accepting, and Harry regrets even more not telling it to her face. “I’m sorry.” She manages to whisper among her tears.

“Harry, oh baby girl, it’s alright, it’s alright. Hush, babe, don’t cry, mommy's here, ok? Mommy’s here.” Anne’s voice is a bit wet as well, while she keeps whispering comforting words to Harry, waiting for her to stop crying. It takes some time, Harry sobbing to her mom nonsense apologies, while Anne rebuffs them all, always saying it’s okay and that she’s got Harry no matter what.

When Harry finally calms herself down, her eyes are puffy and she’s feeling somewhat better. Even if her body and her head hurt, at least her soul feels lighter.

“Harry?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying you’re sorry, there’s nothing for you to be sorry for.” Anne admonishes. “Except, maybe, telling me this over the phone instead of here at home. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? When did you learn about this?”

“Last month.” Harry rushes out, already dreading the earful she’ll receive from her mom.

“Last month?! Why did it take so long for you to tell me, Harriet Styles?” Anne gasps dramatically, making Harry smile despite her runny nose and overall pitiful state. “Is it a girl? Did you find yourself a girlfriend in London? Harry! What are you hiding, young lady? Did my baby girl find love in the fog city?”

“Mum,” Harry moans embarrassedly, laughing against her hand on her face. “Stop making it sound like I’m living some lame, corny romance.”

“Are you though?”

“No, I’m not! I’m still single as a pringle!” Harry laughed, glad to be having fun with her mom.

“Ah, well, I bet some young lady will appear anyway. Or a young boy or lady?” Anne asks, her voice lilting a little, curious.

“Hm, no, just a lady. Doesn’t even have to be young.” Harry snorts, just to spite her mom.

“Harriet!”

Harry laughs harder, relief pouring out of her and making her sound a bit crazed, her laughter more due of an explosion of happiness than it being funny. Her mom sighs again, chuckling a little bit before she keeps talking.

“Harry, I will repeat all this when I see you later this month, but I need to tell you right now as well so bear with me.” Harry bit her lip, bracing herself to what Anne was about to say. “I love you and you’re my daughter no matter what. Please, never forget this. You’re my baby girl, my treasure, my lovely daughter. I don’t care who you love, I just care that you’re happy.” Harry feels her eyes water again, secure in her mom’s words. “Ok, that’s a lie, of course I care who you love. When you find your next girlfriend, bring her home so I can see for myself if she’s good enough for my baby girl, ok? We need to see for ourselves if she’s good enough for my baby girl, if she’ll make you happy. Promise?”

“Promise.” Harry answers, her voice heavy by her new wave of tears, but easened by the smile on her face.

“Good. Now. Your aunt.”

Harry cackles loudly, relief pouring out of her for the rest of her phone call with her mom. By the time she hangs up, Liam has already arrived, silently moving around their room, grabbing her stuff to go to the bathroom and get ready for bed. When she comes back, Harry is gripping her phone hard against her chest, eyes closed to surf through her wave of emotions.

“Harry? Everything ok?”

Harry hums.

“Sorry to intrude, but your eyes are a bit red. Wanna talk about it? Everything ok at home? You need something?”

Harry smiles small, comforted by Liam’s worry and kind words.

“Yeah, nothing bad happened. Everything’s ok.”

Before Liam can answer, Harry’s phone starts vibrating in her hand, an incoming videocall from Gemma. She looks apologetically to Liam and after saying there’s no problem if Liam stays, she accepts it.

“What’s this big bloody secret mum told me you had for me? You guys were on the phone for _ages_ , H! I needed to talk to mum, God.” Gemma looks the same as always, too sassy, too blond.

“What’s the rush? You needed to uncover some dirty in our aunt to win your argument for once?” Harry snorts, sitting up on her bed and smiling down at her sister. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Liam laying down on her bed, scrolling down her phone and trying to give Harry as much privacy as possible. It gives Harry an idea.

“No? As if I’d need something as low as this to win over an argument.” Gemma rolls her eyes but her face gets closer to the screen. “Why? Do you know something?”

Harry laughs, happy to talk to her sister. God, sometimes she misses her so much. “No, I don’t. Not about her anyway.”

“What do you know, then?” Gemma whines with a pout on her face.

“Well,” Harry bites her lips nervously, looking over at Liam for a second. She thinks then, _fuck it._ “Hm, there’s this girl, right?”

“And?”

“And I might have a crush on her?” Harry brings her free hand up to her mouth, biting on her thumb nail. Gemma just lifts an eyebrow curiously.

“A crush? How old are you, 12?”

Harry rolls her eyes, biting back a smile. “What do you want me to say, that I’m in love with her?”

“Are you?”

“No! God, no! I barely know her name.”

“How do you know you like her then?” Gemma asks, more curious than taunting this time.

Harry shrugs, not really knowing what to answer unless Gemma will roast her a new one. “I just do.”

“ _I just do,_ ” Gemma mocks her, repeating her words back in a parody of Harry’s voice. “God, you sound dumb. Tell me details, Harry. I need them to tease you.”

“You’re teasing me without them anyway.” Harry pouts, hugging her knees up to her chest and smiling down at the screen.

“And now I need them to keep the teasing going, God, keep up.”

They both laugh at the absurdity of Gemma’s answer, the video trembling a bit due to their hands shaking. Harry grins so hard down at her phone she forgets all the worries she had before. Nevertheless, she looks up at Liam, sees her watching Harry back. Before worry can crawl back, Liam smiles at Harry, no judgement on her face when she goes back to her phone. Harry does the same to see Gemma looking at her with narrowed eyes.

“Do I know her?”

Harry cringes, knowing far too well where Gemma’s mind went. Imagine it, Harry with a crush on Liam. Harry suppresses a shudder. God, no.

“Er, no, you don’t. Not even I know her, I saw her at a park nearby here once or twice.”

“You’re pinning from far away, Harry? God, that’s lame. Go talk to her, what are you waiting for?”

Harry shrugs.

“You’re dumb. Go talk to her, you’re missing your chance.”

“She doesn’t even know me.” Harry tries, voice small.

“And you don’t know her. That’s why we have this thing called _dating_ , I’m sure you’ve heard of. That’s how you meet people you wanna fuck.”

Harry splutters, suddenly shy Liam is listening to it all. “Ok, that’s enough, bye, Gems, nice talking to you.”

Gemma keeps laughing, probably because she can see Harry blushing all the way up in Manchester. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll let you go. And H?” When Harry hums, she continues. “Thank you for telling me. I love you, eh?”

Harry smiles at her sister, glad for their closeness. “Yeah. Love you too.”

She turns off the call, gathering her courage once more that evening. Liam is still scrolling down her phone, seemingly distracted but probably waiting for Harry to say something.

“So,” Harry starts, a bit shy. “I’m still not very good at this coming out thing but. I guess you should know, you know. Since we’re roommates and all. And. Yeah.” Eloquent, Harry is so eloquent she doesn’t know how she’s ever managed to make a friend in her life ever.

“Thanks for telling me.” Liam turns to Harry, putting her phone down and staring at her with kind eyes. “I won’t lie and say I suspected, because I’m terrible with this shit, but thank you for trusting me. I promise I won’t tell anyone you don’t want me to. Although, I have to ask,” Liam makes a face, “I’m not the one you’re crushing on, right?”

Harry makes a face back at her, “fuck no, Liam! No, jesus, no.”

“Hey! I’m a catch, ok? But I don’t swing your way, so I wanted to tell you before you pinned or something. You deserve someone cool, you know?” She finishes with a sheepish look, trying to convey a supportive sentiment to Harry.

“Yeah, you’re fine, don’t worry.” Harry rolls her eyes, already dreading the next coming outs she’ll have to do. Fuck, whoever said this shit was easy forgot to mention how every time you get scared no matter what and that every reaction is as different as they come. “I wasn’t lying just then when I told my sister who it was. Besides, you’re not my type.”

“Oi!”

Harry smirks a little, less annoyed at Liam. In the end, what matters is that they’re fine.

Harry’s fine.

 

 

X

 

If you ask Harry about how she’s dealing with her newfound gayness, she’ll tell you she’s fine, she’s never been surer of herself, and that she’s happy with it.

In reality, there’s not a day that her thoughts don’t fall back to ‘is she sure?’ or to ‘what is she  doing?’. She keeps going despite them, unafraid of what people might say, almost waiting to hear them say it so she can confirm to them and to herself.

That’s how she finds herself exploring through lifestyles. First, in clothes choices. Liam is absurdly happy in seeing Harry wearing the headscarf as much as she is, even going so far as buying another one in the same store as a “coming out gift”. Harry is too amused to refuse it, instead going out with Liam that night, wearing the gift and even flirting with a cute girl who complimented her on it.

That night, she shut all her fears up. The moment she kissed the girl - _Maya_ , she’d said - , every fiber of Harry’s being had screamed, telling her that yes, yes, yes, she knew what she was doing, and what she was doing was _right_. She went back to her table with Maya’s number on her phone and a grin, but when she saw Liam’s blushing face her grin made way to a loud cackle. At least she’d been polite enough to ask Harry how had it been and if she’d liked it.

Now Harry is alone in their dorm, forgoing a night out with Liam to stay in bed watching Netflix instead. Liam had blushed and stuttered her way around Harry’s first gay kiss, but in the end she’s a good friend and ally. When Harry mentioned that she was feeling a bit awkward around her group of friends from class, the ones she would go out with before, Liam made sure to introduce Harry to her own group of friends or going out just the two of them, prompting Harry to have fun and embrace her new lifestyle. It didn’t mean Harry wouldn’t make fun of Liam’s over the top acceptance and mothering anyway, even if Liam in all her straight awkwardness did make a good wingwoman.

Secondly, she’s exploring in her tastes. Despites all she knows about herself, and all the experience she’s gathered since her Big Revelation, she’s hungry for more. She’s bolder with expressing herself, not only in clothes, but in movies, in books, in music.

(The moment she rereads Dorian Gray and realises the amount of subtext that went over her head, she wonders how could she be so blind.)

That’s how she finds herself listening to music instead of going for another movie on Netflix. The darkness surrounding her helps her focus on the music, going for new styles, new artists. She finds herself liking things she never thought she would, banging to bands she never dared to before. Lyrics that resonates to her and what she’s going through, shining a new light to her situation and to her life till then.

And then, of course, when she doesn’t have any more reason to ignore it, she opens the playlist she made out of Louie’s band t-shirts, losing herself to the feelings they give her. It’s quite pathetic, this situation she’s in. The only time she spoke to the girl it was due to a stupid accidental touch, a little apologize and nothing more. On Harry’s side, though, there were months of pining fueled by pages on a journal and lyrics in songs that made Harry think of Her.

The first time she’d seen Louie wearing a shirt, it was a The Who one. Harry had spent the rest of the day humming Baba O’Riley and smiling stupidly to herself. She’d known, deep down, that the song would resonate with Her, with how she looked like. A free spirit. Then had come a Rolling Stones shirt and a Black Sabbath one and when The Killers came, Harry knew exactly what song she’d be listening that day. The rest of the day she’d daydreamed about Thelma and Louise (and wasn’t that the fucking irony of the century), about a convertible car where Harry and Louis could drive out of town, maybe in a californian beach, just far away where they could talk about nothing and be carefree.

Harry turns in her bed, laying sideways and staring down at her phone, skipping a couple of songs, frustrated at herself. How could she not have seen this coming? Appropriately, Naive starts playing and she cusses her playlist’s uncalled for humoristic tendencies. She lets her phone go, crossing her arms and pouting at her wall. The playlist had grown since its beginning, going from bands Louie had worn to any song that reminded Harry of Her.

And remember Her, Harry did. She closes her eyes, recalling Her face in her mind. Louie has an angular face, high cheekbones and a thin chin. Soft, brown hair that when the light hits it looks almost dark blond from far away. Her hair is short, around her ears, almost always hidden by a beanie but the very first time Harry saw her it had been flowing freely, the wind playing with it while she skated around the park. Harry had been so _enamoured,_ and now more than ever she knows the correct adjective to it, that she’d forgotten what she was supposed to do, instead choosing to sit down and just. Watch. Later, she’d learn Louie had blue eyes and a high, distinguished voice, a loud laugh and crinkles by the corner of her eyes.

And then, Harry forces herself to remember what she had been consciously avoiding the whole time. Louie has thin lips, rarely wears lipstick, but they stand out, pink and natural on her pretty face. Harry wants more than nothing to kiss them. She imagines she wouldn’t be as soft as the girls Harry has kissed already, has caught one too many barking laughs to know Louie is probably a little shit. It drives Harry up the wall, imagining kissing snarky comments out of her thin, soft lips. Then, of course, playing with her hair, taking her beanie off and messing with her, holding her face softly so she can melt against Harry and kiss back languidly, deep as she can, completely at Harry’s mercy. Sometimes, Harry thinks she won’t let Harry take over, will bite her lower lip, will pull Harry down so she can control the kiss, do it like she wants, where she wants Harry to be. Harry imagines she’d pull on Harry’s curls then, not letting Harry touch her own hair, resting Harry’s hands elsewhere, either her curvy hips or-

-or her small, perky breasts.

Harry isn’t ashamed of her body, of her own wants, but the wave of desire that rides her when she thinks about Louie’s body under her hands is so strong it surprises even her. She bites her lip, caressing her own body with her hands, deciding to ride it. The playlist helps, making Harry think about how she’d sing to Harry, her raspy voice playfully, telling Harry where she’d want it, how she’d want it.

First, she’d push Harry back to her own bed. Harry turns her position, lying down on her back so she’s with her legs opened as she’d be if the Louie in her mind were there in her room, telling her to take her panties off - which she does - and start playing with herself - which she gladly, _gladly_ does. She starts slowly, her fingers slow, teasing the inside of her thighs as the Louie in her mind scoffs, a tricky glint in her eyes as she starts stripping. She’s wearing the one piece of clothing she did on a particularly hot day Harry had enjoyed in the park, not only by sunbathing and enjoying the warmth, but because Louie had been wearing more revealing clothes. A sleeveless shirt that was so open Harry could see the top she was wearing inside. It was nothing sexy, plain, a dark colour, but to Harry it had been eye catching. And right now, as she imagines Louie lifting the shirt and standing in nothing but the top and tight, black skinny jeans, it’s world stopping. Harry lifts both her hands, fingertips caressing down her thighs and up her stomach, till she’s playing with both her tits, squeezing them and her hardened nipples as well.

“Do you want me to help you with that?” Louie teases, opening her trousers and stepping out of them. Harry squeezes her tits harder, remembers suddenly Louie had tattoos on her arms. She can’t remember what they were exactly, but she paints them in her mind, arms and a torso full of tattoos, making her look sexier than she has any right to.

Just as the Louie in her mind puts her hand inside her panties, Harry follows suit, amazed by how wet she already is, mouth dry when she thinks how wet Louie would be. She brings her fingers up, circling her clit while she imagines Louie looking down at her touching herself, a pleased and hungry look in her face while she takes off her bra, perky nipples hard nubes Harry wants to suck on. When Louie pushes her panties down, Harry can’t decide over a naked, hairless pussy as she’s seen on porn so many times, or a badly trimmed one like hers is. In the end it doesn’t matter, because as Harry opens her legs wider and her fingers caress her from her entrance up to her clit and down again, she imagines Louie doing the same, wanting Harry just as much as she wants her.

She imagines her stepping closer, kneeling up on the mattress and leaning down, her back curved so Harry can see her round, delicious arse up in the air while she mouths at Harry’s clit. Harry bites back a moan, can barely contain it while she imagines her fingers are Louie’s tongue, eating her out slowly, savouring her. She brings them up, back to circling her clit with it, knowing that Louie would love to tease her with the tip of her tongue, driving Harry wild with want, making her wetter than she’s ever been.

Harry stops for a minute, choosing to use both hands instead of just one. While she’s stopped, she realizes a song she hasn’t heard before is playing, a guy singing appropriately about “wanting you so bad”. Harry snorts, adds it to her playlist with her left, still clean, hand, puts it on repeat and goes back to work.

With her right hand, she seeks her entrance, curling two fingers inside, looking for her G spot, where it feels best. She moves them, getting lost in sensation a bit before fucking herself with them, her left hand dipping down to wet her fingertips so they can slide easier against her clit.

She’s spread wide open in her bed, uncovered and naked if not for her shirt pushed up under her armpits. Both her hands work against her, her right hand fucking her faster while her left hand circles on her clit. Her thighs tremble and she can’t hold back her noises, hips bucking against her hands and her legs thrashing against the mattress, lifting her up a bit after her own fingers. She’s panting but she can’t hear it, the music still playing in her earphones. Suddenly, she remembers Louie again, sees her smirking from between Harry’s spread legs and diving down to eat her out, Harry’s fingers on her clit mimicking her tongue while the ones fucking her are Louie’s own, fucking her fast and unforgiving.

It doesn’t take long for Harry to come, not with the extra stimuli of both hands and the mental image of Louie fucking her how she likes. When she comes, her cunt milking her (Louie’s) fingers, she moans so loudly not even the music is enough to deafen it. She doesn’t care, not when she’s boneless from the force of her orgasm, left hand still playing lazily with her clit, drenched in her wetness, dragging the trembles in her whole body a bit more. Her eyes are heavy, her thoughts sluggish.

In her mind, Louie licks her up once more and tells her to clean herself up and go to sleep. Harry obeys, taking both hands from her pussy and cleaning them on the hygienic paper she’d left at her night stand from the last time she was sick. Then it’s a matter of covering herself with her blanket, turning her music off and promptly falling asleep.

When she wakes up the next day, pantieless under her covers and still a bit wet, she can’t help herself from a repeat, fingers quick against her clit, breath muffled against her pillow and so, so glad Liam was a heavy sleeper.

 

 

X

 

 _It feels almost anti-climatic, coming back to the park,_ Harry thinks, as she enters through the gates, a cup of hot chocolate in her hand. She doesn’t stall this time, instead going straight up towards the skatepark.

And to her absolute surprise, she finds it empty but for two teenagers skating by themselves.

She sits down, enjoys her cup of hot chocolate, and all the while waits for Louie and her class to appear. Half an hour later, and she’s not so lucky, no sign of no one but the teenagers. She considers the possibility of going up to them, of asking about the classes and the schedule of them. She quickly discards it, thinking the possibility of interacting with teenagers not worth it. She can come back a next time.

 

X

 

Next time she does, she brings with herself a new book, going back to her routine of reading in the park besides watching from afar. When she isn’t lucky a second time around, she wonders if it’s a sign for her to give up, to sign up in a dating app or try someone else. Still, she continues, silencing that voice and planning when she’ll come back around.

 

X

 

Third time, as always, proves to be the charm.

Harry is not even able to see the skatepark yet when she hear a loud, shrill scream and she _knows_ it’s Louie’s class, loud as always and just as fun. She grins, feet quickening her pace as she approaches and when she’s finally able to see it, she’s assaulted with the image of Louie in all her glory, a jean jacket and beanie as she laughs, a pouty preteen grumpy by her side. Harry allows herself to look for a minute, see any differences. Maybe she was too distracted last time, but now she realises her hair is longer, reaching her shoulder under her beanie. The points curl a bit, nothing like Harry’s curls, but still cute enough Harry wishes she could play with it.

She makes her way to her bench, smile still fixed on her face and a spring to her step. She’s happy, she realizes, looking forward to her new possibilities. And, most important of all, after a talk or two - or five - with Gemma and, surprisingly, Liam, she’s determined to talk to Louie, to finally stop pinning from far away and giving themselves a chance. Obviously, it’ll all depend on how Louie reacts to Harry and her awkward attempts but she’s confident. She may still not know how to talk to a girl crush, but she’s been practicing at bars and she has had all her calm and aloofness from Before. She can pull it off now, she’s sure. She can do it.

The book in her hands proves itself to be a welcome distraction. She’s about twenty pages in when she hears a whistle and a voice calling from her side.

“Well, well, well, look who the weather has brought out again. What is this? A spring awakening?”

Harry turns to see the blonde girl, Ni, Nea, Noa, something Irish, walking towards her, a terrible swag to her hips and and even worse hat on her head. She looked like a time traveler from the 1920s.

“Please tell me that walk was forced and that you don’t walk like that normally.” Harry blurts out, incapable of holding back her tongue.

“Yeah, it was part of my majestic entrance, but I only do it on occasion,” the girl laughs and sits down by Harry’s side, her blond hair half tucked in inside her scarf. “Did you like it?”

“Not at all,” Harry replies quickly, closing the in her hands and shifting her whole attention to her.

“Pity. I bet Zaynie would like it.” She pouts a minute, then looks at Harry from the corner of her eye. “Sorry, I don’t remember your name, posh girl.”

“It’s Harry. Short for-”

“Harriet, yeah, sorry, I forgot that. I’m kind of bad with names, you know?” She laughs, and for a fraction of a second Harry thinks she’s lying. “I’m Niall, if you don’t remember.”

“I did.” She lies. “Where’s your girlfriend?”

“Wouldn’t I like to know? She went out to buy us some food and still hasn’t been back. Today is gonna be a long fucking day and I need fuel, you know? But still that isn’t reason to take this long in buying a snack or two or seven, if you catch my drift.” Niall pulls at the end of her sweater, making a sweater paw with it and playing with it while she talks.

“Why is it gonna be a long day?” Harry asks, conversationally.

Niall stops and turns to Harry, a huge grin on her face, her hat still terribly ugly. “Aren’t we talkative today? My, my, spring does you good, kid.”

“It’s not even spring yet, Niall,” Harry rolls her eyes, amused.

“But it suits you anyway,” Niall shrugs, before continuing. “Louis was sick this week, so she scheduled her whole week worth of classes for today. We’re gonna be here twice as long than usual, still got a half of the time to go, so I convinced my queen that we should have snacks to survive the rest of it.”

“And,” Harry clears her throat, trying and probably failing on sounding nonchalant. “Louie is…?”

“Louis, that chick over there,” Niall points at Louie, who’s holding a little kids hand while she tries on her skate for the first time, helping her balance herself on top of it. “With the nasty beanie and even nastier mouth, but don’t tell her students that.” Harry laughs, seizing the introduction to keep on looking at Louie, see her interact with her students. Niall hums before continuing, “she’s a nice one, though. Thinks herself too posh, french name and all, but you both could go on well, posh spice.”

Harry turns to look at Niall, a confused look on her face. “What?”

“Louis, it’s with a silent ‘s’ at the end. Real posh. Then comes you, headscarf all the way down from Holmes Chapel. You both should talk, it’d be like a royal meeting or something.” Niall wiggles her eyebrow, chuckling at her own (lame) joke. “It’s like, Princess Harry and,” she gasps dramatically, “ _the King Sun, Louis XIV._ ”

“ _What?_ ” Harry asks again, even more lost than before.

“Yeah, no, nevermind. I’m a History nerd, sometimes I go too hard. Zayn would have appreciated it, though, where is she?” Niall whines, sliding down the bench and accidentally touching Harry’s leg with her own. Harry doesn’t move, appreciating the warmth in the still cold weather. They stay silent for a moment, both watching the kids and Louis.

“You seem happier.” Niall whispers some time later, her eyes still focused up front when Harry looks at her.

“I am.”

“Good.”

They stay in silence again. Louis is now teaching the grumpy preteen on how to do a little trick, jumping in air and turning the skate under his feet before he falls to the floor on top of it again.

“I’m sorry, you know. For going too hard on you last time, it was none of my business.”

Harry snorts. “Yeah, it wasn’t. But I think you’re not very sorry because of it.”

“I am, Zayn ripped me a new one because of it, but bloody hell, Harriet, you should have seen how you looked back then. I had to do something.” Niall crosses her arms, hunching her shoulders a bit. “There’s nothing I hate more than seeing that look on people’s face.”

Harry waits for a beat before she asks. “Was that how you met Zayn?”

Niall shakes her head no. “Louis.”

“Oh.”

“I had barely moved in with Zayn here to London, you know?” Niall hugs herself tighter. “I knew no one besides Zayn and Zayn’s mates. So I find Louis working at a cafe shop down our building’s street, and she hated it but smiled anyway. As she should, you know? It’s a job.” She shrugs. “We were so young, though, she shouldn’t be looking like that. So I try to cheer her up. Kind of do the same thing I did with you, I go so hard she tells me she’s not interested and is pissed when I tell her I have a girlfriend because ‘ _she hates cheaters’_.” Niall huffs a laugh. “Wasn’t the best start, but we turned that around. Louis had a rough patch back then, but who doesn’t? I don’t regret meddling in, though, even if Zayn told me back off back then as well. Zayn doesn’t either, to be honest, since that’s how she found her best mate.” She finishes with a dazzling smile, finally facing Harry.

“So I wasn’t the only one, then?” Harry jokes, a raised eyebrow and a small smile teasing Niall. “Is that your process of recruiting new friends?” She gasps dramatically. “Niall, are we like your _stray puppies_ ? Do you and Zayn _adopt_ us?” Harry turns away, pretending to be hurt. “And I trusted you.”

Niall’s laugh is so loud, cackling through the cold air it raises Louis’ attention and for the second time in all the months she’s known (of) her, they make eye contact. Harry doesn’t turn her face, holding the contact for as long as she’s capable, her grin still firm on her face. Louis seems to be curious, gazing at Niall still laughing by Harry’s side and at Harry, a small smile lifting the side of her mouth when she makes eye contact with Harry again.

Somehow, Harry finds enough courage to mouth a ‘Hi’ towards Louis, whose grin is so big in response Harry feels all of the air leave her lungs at once. Sadly, their moment doesn’t last for much longer, Louis turning to answer grumpy-preteen still with a grin on her mouth.

Harry sits back against the bench, smile firm on her face as well. By the suspicious silence coming from her side, she thinks Niall saw their exchange, but she’s too bubbly to mind it, instead basking in the feeling, eyes following Louis from afar and catching every time she looks up in their direction, both smiling at the other every time it happens.

Time passes by and both Niall and Harry stay silent, Niall with her phone on her hands and Harry following Louis’ every move with her eyes with no guilt. It isn’t like the other times, she’s not ashamed of herself for doing it, and if Louis’ smile is anything to go by, it isn’t unwelcomed either. Harry thrives on it, on being able to drink on her as much as she can.

Soon enough, Zayn appears by their bench, suspiciously bringing enough snacks for 4 people instead of 3. She doesn’t comment on Harry being there, instead just greeting her like a friend and passing by snacks. She still sits on Niall’s lap, both sharing a cup of coffee and a bagel, making them the cutest and also grossest couple Harry has ever had the pleasure of third-wheeling for.

“Seriously, you guys are teeth rotting disgusting, has anyone told you that? I swear, it’s like you’re the poster couple of the century or something.” Harry laughs into the cup of hot chocolate Zayn brought her. “Disgusting.”

“Now you sound like Louis,” Zayn smirks, sharing a look with Niall and leaning down to kiss her sweetly.

“Yeah, you’re just jealous of our awesome relationship,” Niall laughs, still looking at Zayn’s face, completely enamoured.

Harry laughs, and silently agrees. If she’s honest, there’s still an irrational part of her that still struggles to accept this _“lifestyle”_ , but this voice is getting quieter and quieter the more Harry explores her own sexuality, the more she sees how in love Niall and Zayn are for each other. It’s natural, she knows, but years of conditioning to believe something else, even if not altogether prejudiced, are difficult to let go of. She’s learning day by day, though.

They keep talking and Harry finds an easy friendship in both. Niall is easygoing and funny, but Zayn has similar interests to Harry. She geeks a little bit on Zayn’s tattoos, tells her how she wants her owns but still hasn’t had the courage to do them.

“I mean, I don’t even know what I want, you know? I change my mind all the time.”

“I doubt it, what’s the first one you thought of doing?” Zayn asks, her hands secure in Niall’s.

“A star? On my arm, when I was like 16.”

“So, yesterday.” Niall cuts in, both her and Zayn laughing at her joke.

“Heyy,” Harry pouts, “I’m 19.”

“Exactly, a nine- _teen_ . You’re a _baby_.” Niall jokes, moving forward and resting her head on Zayn’s shoulder, hugging her closer in her lap.

“You can’t talk much, love.” Zayn snorts, kissing the top of Niall’s head and Harry can’t help thinking it must be true love if she’s willing to kiss that fucking ugly hat.

“Shut up, old woman.” Niall retorts, biting her teasingly.

Harry rolls her eyes exasperated. She wasn’t joking when she said they were the poster child for a relationship, they were so into each other it was sickening. Harry was green with envy just looking at it.

“You know,” Niall starts conversationally, “wasn’t a nautical star tattoo a symbol for lesbianism?” She looks over at Harry. “You should get one.”

Both Zayn and Niall look at her curiously. It’s obviously an attempt to subtly know where Harry stands, and she’s not dumb to not see right through it. She bites her lips. “I thought more about a black star tattoo instead of nautical, like the Bowie album. But it works too, I think. A nautical star tattoo. I kind of like the theme, nautical.”

Both Niall and Zayn smile, a mirror of each other even when they’re looking at Harry instead of at them. It’s kind of creepy. They nod, quickly agreeing with Harry that it’s a nice, very nice theme and Zayn changes the subject to start talking about Bowie.

They’re not subtle from then on, poking at each other and sharing looks. Niall even giggles once for no reason, and Zayn glows just by looking at her. Harry can’t help but hope furiously it means they’ll try and introduce her to Louis, to help her make their meeting easier and less awkward than she’s been planning the whole week.

And when she sees Louis approaching them later, her skateboard in her hand and eyes focused on Harry, she can’t help the smile breaking in her face.

Seems like spring did come earlier this year.

 

X

 

“Sometimes, people are beautiful.” Harry whispers, her voice soft. Louis kisses Harry’s shoulder, lips barely moving. “Not in looks.” Another one. “Not in what they say.” Another one. “Just in what they are. In what _you_ are.”

“You’re so full of shit, Curls.” Louis laughs, smile big on her face, eyes crinkling. Their hands tight on their hold of each other, legs intertwined beneath the blanket. “Good thing I love you.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So that was that. If y'all like it, pls scream at me on the comments session or on [perfectdagger](HTTP://perfectdagger.tumblr.com/) my 1D blog! :) also if u want you can always check out my other work lmao


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